D  FRIENDS 

AND  NEW 


MISS  JEWETT'S  BOOKS. 


DEEPHAVEN.     "  Little  Classic  "  style.     $1.25. 

"A  very  charming  story  of  two  devoted  friends  who  spent  part  of  a  sum 
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tian  Register. 

"  It  is  a  common  thing  to  say  about  a  book  that  it  is  charming  or  inter 
esting  or  absorbing,  and  very  often  it  is  said  without  any  particular 
meaning  or  interest.  But  here  is  a  book  which  is  really  all  three.  Its 
pictures  of  quiet  sea-shore  life  are  unsurpassed."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

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"  We  know  of  no  American  book  that  contains  fifteen  more  entertaining 
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"  They  are  sweet  and  pure  and  well  told,  beautifully  printed,  and  altogether 
to  be  commended." —  Chicago  Advance. 

"  Charming,  delicate,  bright,  lovable,  quaint,  natural,  simply  delicious- 
are  a  few  adjectives  descriptive  of  Miss  Jewett's  stories,  selected  among 
the  many  that  occur  in  thinking  over  the  pleasant  hour  spent  in  reading 
them.  They  are  among  the  choicest  and  best  stories  ever  written  for  chil 
dren."  —  Portland  Press. 

OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW.     "  Little  Classic "  style.    $1.25. 


HOUGHTON,    OSGOOD   &   CO.,    Boston. 


Old  Friends  and  New. 


BY 


SARAH    O.    JEWETT 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY. 


1879. 


COPYRIGHT,  1879, 
BY  BpubftTCTNV  OS3GOI>  &  GO. 


ELECTROTYPES  BY  C.  J.   PETERS  &   SON, 
73  FEDEBAL  STREET. 


CONTENTS. 


A  LOST  LOVER 

A  SORROWFUL  GUEST  . 

A  LATE  SUPPER 

MR.  BRUCE    . 

Miss  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS 

LADY  FERRY 

A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE    . 


PAGE 

7 


80 
115 
143 
17(> 

228 


M8896' 


OLD   FRIEXDS   AKD   NEW. 


A  LOST  LOVER 


JOR  a  great  many  years  it  had  been  under 
stood  in  Longfield  that  Miss  Horatia 
Dane  once  had  a  lover,  and  that  he 
had  been  lost  at  sea.  By  little  and  little,  in  one 
way  and  another,  her  acquaintances  had  found 
out  or  made  up  the  whole  story  ;  and  Miss  Dane 
stood  in  the  position,  not  of  an  unmarried  woman 
exactly,  but  rather  of  having  spent  most  of  her 
life  in  a  long  and  lonely  widowhood.  She  looked 
like  a  person  with  a  history,  strangers  often  said 
(as  if  we  each  did  not  have  a  history)  ;  and  her 
own  unbroken  reserve  about  this  romance  of 
hers  gave  everybody  the  more  respect  for  it. 

The  Longfield  people  paid  willing  deference  to 
Miss  Dane  :  her  family  had  always  been  one  that 
could  be  liked  and  respected,  and  she  was  the 
last  that  was  left  in  the  old  home  of  which  she 
was  so  fond.  This  was  a  high,  square  house, 
with  a  row  of  pointed  windows  in  its  roof,  a 

7 


8  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

peaked  porch  in  front,  with  some  lilac-bushes 
nrpur.d  it;  ajicj  .flowxi  by  the  road  was  a  long, 
orderly  procession  of  poplars,  like  a  row  of  sen 
tinels  standing  guard.  ,  $he  had  lived  here  alone 
sm^e  her  father's  tfeafchi  twenty  years  before. 
She  was  a  kind,  just  woman,  whose  pleasures 
were  of  a  stately  and  sober  sort ;  and  she  seemed 
not  unhappy  in  her  loneliness,  though  she  some 
times  said  gravel}'  that  she  was  the  last  of  her 
family,  as  if  the  fact  had  a  great  sadness  for 
her. 

She  had  some  middle-aged  and  elderly  cousins 
living  at  a  distance,  and  they  came  occasional!}' 
to  see  her ;  but  there  had  been  no  young  people 
staying  in  the  house  for  many  years  until  this 
summer,  when  the  daughter  of  her  youngest 
cousin  had  written  to  ask  if  she  might  come  to 
make  a  visit.  She  was  a  motherless  girl  of 
twenty,  both  older  and  younger  than  her  years. 
Her  father  and  brother,  who  were  civil  engineers, 
had  taken  some  work  upon  the  line  of  a  railway 
in  the  far  Western  country.  Nelly  had  made 
many  long  journeys  with  them  before  and  since 
she  had  left  school,  and  she  had  meant  to  follow 
them  now,  after  she  had  spent  a  fortnight  with 
the  old  cousin  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  her 


A  LOST  LOVER.  9 

childhood.  Her  father  had  laughed  at  the  visit  as 
a  freak,  and  had  warned  her  of  the  dullness  and 
primness  of  Longfield ;  but  the  result  was  that 
the  girl  found  herself  very  happy  in  the  comfort 
able  home.  She  was  still  her  own  free,  unfet 
tered,  lucky,  and  sunshiny  self;  and  the  old 
house  was  so  much  pleasanter  for  the  girlish  face 
and  life,  that  Miss  Horatia  had,  at  first  timidly 
and  then  most  heartily,  begged  her  to  stay  for  the 
whole  summer,  or  even  the  autumn,  until  her 
father  was  ready  to  come  East.  The  name  of 
Dane  was  very  dear  to  Miss  Horatia,  and  she 
grewr  fonder  of  her  guest.  When  the  village- 
people  saw  her  glance  at  the  girl  affectionately, 
as  the3'  sat  together  in  the  family-pew  of  a  Sun 
day,  or  saw  them  walking  together  after  tea,  they 
said  it  was  a  good  thing  for  Miss  Horatia ;  how 
bright  she  looked  ;  and  no  doubt  she  would  leave 
all  her  money  to  Nelly  Dane,  if  she  pla}~ed  her 
cards  well. 

But  we  will  do  Nelly  justice,  and  say  that  she 
was  not  mercenary :  she  would  have  scorned 
such  a  thought.  She  had  grown  to  have  a  great 
love  for  her  cousin  Horatia,  and  she  liked  to 
please  her.  She  idealized  her,  I  have  no  doubt ; 
and  her  repression,  her  grave  courtesy  and  rare 


10  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

words  of  approval,  had  a  great  fascination  for  a 
girl  who  had  just  been  used  to  people  who  chat 
tered,  and  were  upon  most  intimate  terms  with 
you  directly,  and  could  forget  3*011  with  equal 
ease.  And  Nelty  liked  having  so  admiring  and 
easily  pleased  an  audience  as  Miss  Dane  and  her 
old  servant  Melissa.  She  liked  to  be  queen  of 
her  company :  she  had  so  many  ga}r,  bright 
stories  of  what  had  happened  to  herself  and  her 
friends.  Beside,  she  was  clever  with  her  needle, 
and  had  all  those  practical  gifts  which  elderly 
women  approve  so  heartily  in  girls.  They  liked 
her  pretty  clothes ;  she  was  sensible  and  eco 
nomical  and  busy ;  they  praised  her  to  each 
other  and  to  the  world,  and  even  stubborn  old 
Andrew,  the  man,  to  whom  Miss  Iloratia  herself 
spoke  with  deference,  would  do  any  thing  she 
asked.  Nelly  would  by  no  means  choose  so  dull 
a  life  as  this  for  the  rest  of  her  days  ;  but  she 
enjoyed  it  immensely  for  the  time  being.  She 
instinctively  avoided  all  that  would  shock  the 
grave  dignit}'  and  old-school  ideas  of  Miss  Dane  ; 
and  somehow  she  never  had  felt  happier  or  better 
satisfied  with  life.  I  think  it  was  because  she 
was  her  best  and  most  lad}*-like  self.  It  was  not 
long  before  she  knew  the  village-people  almost  as 


A  LOST  LOVER.  11 

well  as  Miss  Dane  did,  and  she  became  a  very 
great  favorite,  as  a  girl  so  easily  can  who  is 
good-natured  and  pretty,  and  well  versed  in  city 
fashions  ;  who  has  that  tact  and  cleverness  that 
come  to  such  a  nature  from  going  about  the  world 
and  knowing  man}'  people. 

She  had  not  been  in  Longfield  many  weeks 
before  she  heard  something  of  Miss  Dane's  lovc- 
stoiy ;  for  one  of  her  new  friends  said,  in  a  con 
fidential  moment,  "  Does  your  cousin  ever  speak 
to  you  about  the  young  man  to  whom  she  was 
engaged -to  be  married?  "  And  Nelly  answered, 
"  No,*'  with  great  wonder,  and  not  without  regret 
at  her  own  ignorance.  After  this  she  kept  her 
eyes  and  ears  open  for  whatever  news  of  this 
lover's  existence  might  be  found. 

At  last  it  happened  one  day  that  she  had  a 
good  chance  for  a  friendly  talk  with  Melissa  ;  for 
who  should  know  about  the  family  affairs  better 
than  she?  Miss  Horatia  had  taken  her  second- 
best  parasol,  with  a  deep  fringe,  and  had  gone 
majestically  down  the  street  to  do  some  morn 
ing  errands  which  she  could  trust  to  no  one. 
Melissa  was  shelling  peas  at  the  shady  kitchen- 
doorstep,  and  Nelly  came  strolling  round  from 
the  garden,  along  the  clean-swept  flag-stones. 


12  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

and  sat  down  to  help  her.  Melissa  moved  along, 
with  a  grim  smile,  to  make  room  for  her.  "  You 
needn't  bother  yourself,"  said  she:  "I've  noth 
ing  else  to  do.  You'll  green  your  fingers  all 
over."  But  she  was  evidently  pleased  to  have 
company. 

"My  fingers  will  wash,"  said  Nelly,  "and 
I've  nothing  else  to  do  either.  Please  push  the 
basket  this  wa}'  a  little,  or  I  shall  scatter  the 
pods,  and  then  you  will  scold."  She  went  to 
work  busil}',  while  she  tried  to  think  of  the  best 
way  to  find  out  the  story  she  wished  to  hear. 

"There!"  said  Melissa,  "I  never  told  Miss 
Il'ratia  to  get  some  citron,  and  I  settled  yester 
day  to  make  some  pound-cake  this  forenoon  after 
I  got  dinner  along  a  piece.  She's  most  out  o' 
mustard  too ;  she's  set  about  having  mustard  to 
eat  with  her  beef,  just  as  the  old  colonel  was  be 
fore  her.  I  never  saw  an}'  other  folks  eat  mus 
tard  with  their  roast  beef;  but  eveiy  family  has 
their  own  tricks.  I  tied  a  thread  round  my  left- 
hand  little  finger  purpose  to  remember  that  citron 
before  she  came  down  this  morning.  I  hope  I 
ain't  losing  my  fac'lties."  It  was  seldom  that 
Melissa  was  so  talkative  as  this  at  first.  She 
was  clearlv  in  a  talkative  mood. 


A  LOST  LOVER.  13 

"Melissa,"  asked  Nelly,  with  great  braver}-, 
after  a  minute  or  two  of  silence,  "who  was  it 
that  my  cousin  Horatia  was  going  to  many?  It's 
odd  that  I  shouldn't  know  ;  but  I  don't  remember 
father's  ever  speaking  of  it,  and  I  shouldn't  think 
of  asking  her." 

"I  s'pose  it'll  seem  strange  to  you,"  said 
Melissa,  beginning  to  shell  the  peas  a  great  deal 
faster,  "but,  as  many  years  as  I  have  lived  in 
this  house  with  her, — her  mother,  the  old  lad}', 
fetched  me  up,  —  I  never  knew  Miss  H'ratia  to 
say  a  word  about  him.  But  there  !  she  knows  I 
know,  and  we've  got  an  understanding  on  many 
things  we  never  talk  over  as  some  folks  would. 
I've  heard  about  it  from  other  folks.  She  was 
visiting  her  great-aunt  in  Salem  wrhen  she  met 
with  him.  His  name  was  Carrick,  and  it  was 
presumed  they  was  going  to  be  married  when  lie 
came  home  from  the  voyage  he  was  lost  on.  He 
had  the  promise  of  going  out  master  of  a  new 
ship.  They  didn't  keep  company  long :  it  was 
made  up  of  a  sudden,  and  folks  here  didn't  get 
hold  of  the  story  till  some  time  after.  I've 
heard  some  that  ought  to  know  say  it  was  only 
talk,  and  the}"  never  were  engaged  to  be  married 
no  more  than  I  am." 


14  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

"  You  say  he  was  lost  at  sea?"  asked  Nelly. 

"  The  ship  never  was  heard  from.  They  sup 
posed  she  was  run  down  in  the  night  out  in  the 
South  Seas  somewhere.  It  was  a  good  while 
before  they  gave  up  expecting  news  ;  but  none 
ever  come.  I  think  she  set  eveiy  thing  by  him, 
and  took  it  veiy  hard  losing  of  him.  But  there  ! 
she'd  never  say  a  word.  You're  the  freest-spoken 
Dane  I  ever  saw  ;  but  }'ou  may  take  it  from  3-0111' 
mother's  folks.  I  know  he  gave  her  that  whale's 
tooth  with  the  ship  drawn  on  it  that's  on  the 
mantel-piece  in  her  room.  She  may  have  a  sight 
of  other  keepsakes,  for  all  I  know  ;  but  it  ain't 
likely."  And  here  there  was  a  pause,  in  which 
Kelly  grew  sorrowful  as  she  thought  of  the  long 
waiting  for  tidings  of  the  missing  ship,  and  of  her 
cousin's  solitary  life.  It  was  very  odd  to  think 
of  prim  Miss  Horatia's  being  in  love  with  a  sail 
or.  There  was  a  young  lieutenant  in  the  navy 
whom  Nelly  herself  liked  dearly,  and  he  had  gone 
awa}-  on  a  long  voyage.  "Perhaps  she's  been 
just  as  well  off,"  said  Melissa.  "  She's  dreadful 
set,  y'r  cousin  H'ratia  is,  and  sailors  is  high- 
tempered  men.  I've  heard  it  hinted  that  he  was 
a  fast  fellow  ;  and  if  a  woman's  got  a  good  home 
like  this,  and's  able  to  do  for  herself,  she'd  bet- 


A  LOST  LOVER.  15 

ter  stay  there.  I  ain't  going  to  give  up  a  cer 
tainty  for  an  uncertainty, — that's  what  /  always 
tell  'em,"  added  Melissa,  with  great  decision,  as 
if  she  were  besieged  Ivy  lovers  ;  but  Nelly  smiled 
inwardly  as  she  thought  of  the  courage  it  would 
take  to  support  an}'  one  who  wished  to  offer  her 
companion  his  heart  and  hand.  It  would  need 
desperate  energy  to  scale  the  walls  of  that  gar 
rison. 

The  green  peas  were  all  shelled  presently,  and 
Melissa  said  gravely  that  she  should  have  to  be 
lazy  now  until  it  was  time  to  put  in  the  meat. 
She  wasn't  used  to  being  helped,  unless  there 
wras  extra  work,  and  she  calculated  to  have  one 
piece  of  work  join  on  to  another.  However,  it 
was  no  account,  and  she  was  obliged  for  the  com 
pany  ;  and  Nell}'  laughed  merrily  as  she  stood 
washing  her  hands  in  the  shining  old  copper 
basin  at  the  sink.  The  sun  would  not  be  round 
that  side  of  the  house  for  a  long  time  yet,  and  the 
pink  and  blue  morning-glories  were  still  in  their 
full  bloom  and  freshness.  They  grew  over  the 
window,  twined  on  strings  exactly  the  same  dis 
tance  apart.  There  was  a  box  crowded  full  of 
green  houseleeks  down  at  the  side  of  the  door : 
they  were  straying  over  the  edge,  and  Melissa 


16  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

stooped  stiffly  down  with  an  air  of  disapproval  at 
their  untidiness.  "  They  straggle  all  over  every 
thing,"  said  she,  "  and  they're  no  kind  of  use, 
only  Miss's  mother  she  set  every  thing  by  'em. 
She  fetched  'em  from  home  with  her  when  she 
was  married,  her  mother  kep'  a  box,  and  the}' 
came  from  England.  P"olks  used  to  say  they  was 
good  for  bee-stings."  Then  she  went  into  the 
inner  kitchen,  and  Nelly  went  slowly  away  along 
the  flag-stones  to  the  garden  from  whence  she 
had  come.  The  garden-gate  opened  with  a  tired 
creak,  and  shut  with  a  clack  ;  and  she  noticed  how 
smooth  and  shiny  the  wood  was  where  the  touch 
of  so  man}'  hands  had  worn  it.  There  was  a 
great  pleasure  to  this  girl  in  finding  herself  among 
such  old  and  well-worn  things.  She  had  been  for 
a  long  time  in  cities  or  at  the  West ;  and  among 
the  old  fashions  and  ancient  possessions  of  Long- 
field  it  seemed  to  her  that  every  thing  had  its 
story,  and  she  liked  the  quietness  and  unchange- 
ablencss  with  which  life  seemed  to  go  on  from 
year  to  year.  She  had  seen  many  a  dainty  or 
gorgeous  garden,  but  never  one  that  she  had 
liked  so  well  as  this,  with  its  herb-bed  and  its 
broken  rows  of  currant-bushes,  its  tall  stalks  of 
white  lilies  and  its  wandering  rose-bushes  and 


A  LOST  LOVER.  17 

hone}'suckles,  that  had  bloomed  beside  the 
straight  paths  for  so  many  more  summers  than 
she  herself  had  lived.  She  picked  a  little  nose 
gay  of  late  red  roses,  and  carried  it  into  the 
house  to  put  on  the  parlor-table.  The  wide  hall- 
door  was  standing  open,  with  its  green  outer 
blinds  closed,  and  the  old  hall  was  dim  and  cool. 
Miss  Horatia  did  not  like  a  glare  of  sunlight,  and 
she  abhorred  flies  with  her  whole  heart.  Nelly 
could  hardly  see  her  wa}r  through  the  rooms,  it 
had  been  so  bright  out  of  doors  ;  but  she  brought 
the  tall  champagne-glass  of  water  from  the  din 
ing-room  and  put  the  flowers  in  their  place. 
Then  she  looked  at  two  silhouettes  which  stood 
on  the  mantel  in  carved  ebon}'  frames.  They 
were  portraits  of  an  uncle  of  Miss  Dane  and  his 
wife.  Miss  Dane  had  thought  Nelly  looked  like 
this  uncle  the  evening  before.  She  could  not  see 
the  likeness  herself;  but  the  pictures  suggested 
something  else,  and  she  turned  suddenly,  and 
went  hurrying  up  the  stairs  to  Miss  Horatia's 
own  room,  where  she  remembered  to  have  seen  a 
group  of  silhouettes  fastened  to  the  wall.  There 
were  seven  or  eight,  and  she  looked  at  the  young 
men  among  them  most  carefully ;  but  thej'  were 
all  marked  with  the  name  of  Dane  :  the}'  were 


18  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

Miss  Horatia's  brothers,  and  our  friend  hung 
them  on  their  little  brass  hooks  again  with  a  feel 
ing  of  disappointment.  Perhaps  her  cousin  had 
a  quaint  miniature  of  the  lover,  painted  on  ivory, 
and  shut  in  a  worn  red  morocco  case ;  she  hoped 
she  should  get  a  sight  of  it  some  da}'.  This  stor}r 
of  the  lost  sailor  had  a  wonderful  charm  for  the 
girl.  Miss  Horatia  had  never  been  so  interesting 
to  her  before.  How  she  must  have  mourned  for 
the  lover,  and  missed  him,  and  hoped  there  would 
yet  be  news  from  the  ship !  Nelly  thought  she 
would  tell  her  her  own  little  love-stoiy  some  da}', 
though  there  was  not  much  to  tell  yet,  in  spite  of 
there  being  so  much  to  think  about.  She  built  a 
little  castle  in  Spain  as  she  sat  in  the  front-win 
dow-seat  of  the  upper  hall,  and  dreamed  pleasant 
stories  for  herself  until  the  sharp  noise  of  the 
front-gate-latch  waked  her ;  and  she  looked  out 
through  the  blind  to  see  her  cousin  coming  up  the 
walk. 

Miss  Horatia  looked  hot  and  tired,  and  her 
thoughts  were  not  of  any  fashion  of  romance. 
"It  is  going  to  be  very  warm,"  said  she.  "I 
have  been  worrying  ever  since  I  have  been  gone, 
because  I  forgot  to  ask  Andrew  to  pick  those 
white  currants  for  the  minister's  wife.  I  prom- 


A  LOST  LOVER.  19 

ised  that  she  should  have  them  early  this  morn 
ing.  Would  you  go  out  to  the  kitchen,  and  ask 
Melissa  to  step  in  for  a  moment,  my  dear?  " 

Melissa  was  picking  over  red  currants  to  make 
a  pie,  and  rose  from  her  chair  with  a  little  un 
willingness.  4t  I  guess  the3~  could  wait  until 
afternoon,"  said  she,  as  she  came  back.  "  Miss 
H'ratia's  in  a  fret  because  she  forgot  about  send 
ing  some  white  currants  to  the  minister's.  I  told 
her  that  Andrew  had  gone  to  have  the  horses 
shod,  and  wouldn't  be  back  till  near  noon.  I 
don't  see  wh}r  part  of  the  folks  in  the  world 
should  kill  themselves  t^ing  to  suit  the  rest. 
As  long  as  I  haven't  got  an3r  citron  for  the  cake, 
I  suppose  I  might  go  out  and  pick  'em,"  added 
Melissa  ungraciously.  u  I'll  get  some  to  set 
away  for  tea  airvhow." 

Miss  Dane  had  a  letter  to  write  after  she  had 
rested  from  her  walk  ;  and  Nelly  soon  left  her  in 
the  dark  parlor,  and  went  back  to  the  sunshiny 
garden  to  help  Melissa,  who  seemed  to  be  taking 
life  with  more  than  her  usual  disapproval.  She 
was  sheltered  by  an  enormous  gingham  sun- 
bonnet. 

"  I  set  out  to  free  my  mind  to  3*0111'  cousin 
H'ratia  this  morning,"  said  she,  as  Nelly 


20  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

crouched  down  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  bush 
where  she  was  picking  ;  "  but  we  can't  agree  on 
that  p'int,  and  it's  no  use.  I  don't  sa}r  nothing. 
You  might's  well  ask  the  moon  to  face  about  and 
travel  the  other  way  as  to  try  to  change  Miss 
H'ratia's  mind.  I  ain't  going  to  argue  it  with 
her :  it  ain't  nry  place  ;  I  know  that  as  well  as 
anybod}-.  She'd  run  her  feet  off  for  the  minis 
ter's  folks  any  day  ;  and,  though  I  do  say  he's  a 
fair  preacher,  the}'  haven't  got  a  speck  o'  con 
sideration  nor  fac'hry  ;  they  think  the  world  was 
made  for  them,  but  I  think  likely  the}''!!  find  out 
it  wasn't ;  most  folks  do.  When  he  first  was  set 
tled  here,  I  had  a  fit  o'  sickness,  and  he  come  to 
see  me  when  I  was  getting  over  the  worst  of  it. 
He  did  the  best  he  could,  I  always  took  it  very 
kind  of  him ;  but  he  made  a  prayer,  and  he  kep' 
sayin'  'this  aged  handmaid,'  I  should  think,  a 
dozen  times.  Aged  handmaid!"  said  Melissa 
scornfully:  "I  don't  call  myself  aged  yet,  and 
that  was  more  than  ten  years  ago.  I  never  made 
pretensions  to  being  younger  than  I  am ;  but 
3'ou'd  V  thought  I  was  a  topplin'  old  creatur' 
going  on  a  hundred." 

Nelly    laughed ;    Melissa    looked    cross,    and 
moved  on  to  the  next  currant-bush.     u  So  that's 


A  LOST  LOVER.  21 

why   you    don't   like   the    minister?"     But   the 
question  did  not  seem  to  please. 

"  I  hope  I  never  should  be  set  against  a 
preacher  by  such  as  that."  And  Nelly  hastened 
to  change  the  subject ;  but  there  was  to  be  a  last 
word :  "I  like  to  see  a  minister  that's  solid 
minister  right  straight  through,  not  one  of  these 
veneered  folks.  But  old  Parson  Croden  spoilt 
me  for  setting  under  any  other  preaching." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Nelly,  after  a  little,  "if 
Cousin  Horatia  has  an)'  picture  of  that  Captain 
Carrick." 

41  He  wasn't  captain,"  said  Melissa.  "  I  never 
heard  that  it  was  any  more  than  they  talked  of 
giving  him  a  ship  next  vo}'age." 

"  And  you  never  saw  him?  He  never  came 
here  to  see  her?  " 

Ci  Bless  you,  no !  She  met  with  him  at  Salem, 
where  she  was  spending  the  winter,  and  he  went 
right  away  to  sea.  I've  heard  a  good  deal  more, 
about  it  of  late  years  than  I  ever  did  at  the  time. 
I  suppose  the  Salem  folks  talked  about  it  enough. 
All  I  know  is,  there  was  other  good  matches  that 
offered  to  her  since,  and  couldn't  get  her  ;  and  I 
suppose  it  was  on  account  of  her  heart's  being 
buried  in  the  deep  with  him."  And  this  unex- 


22  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

pected  bit  of  sentiment,  spoken  in  Melissa's 
grummcst  tone,  seemed  so  funny  to  her  young 
companion,  that  she  bent  veiy  low  to  pick  from  a 
currant-twig  close  to  the  ground,  and  could  not 
ask  any  more  questions  for  some  time. 

"  I  have  seen  her  a  sight  o'  times  when  I  knew 
she  was  thinking  about  him,"  Melissa  went  on 
presently,  this  time  with  a  tenderness  in  her  voice 
that  touched  Nelly's  heart.  "  She's  been  dread 
ful  lonesome.  She  and  the  old  colonel,  her 
father,  wasn't  much  com  pan}*  to  each  other,  and 
she  always  kep'  every  thing  to  herself.  The  only 
time  she  ever  said  a  word  to  me  was  one  night 
six  or  seven  years  ago  this  Christmas.  They  got 
up  a  Christmas-tree  in  the  vestry,  and  she  went, 
and  I  did  too ;  I  guess  everybody  in  the  whole 
church  and  parish  that  could  crawl  turned  out  to 
go.  The  children  they  made  a  dreadful  racket. 
I'd  ha'  got  my  ears  took  off  if  I  had  been  so 
forth-putting  when  I  was  little.  I  was  looking 
round  for  Miss  H'ratia  'long  at  the  last  of  the 
evening,  and  somebody  said  they'd  seen  her  go 
home.  I  hurried,  and  I  couldn't  see  any  light  in 
the  house  ;  and  I  was  afraid  she  was  sick  or  some 
thing.  She  come  and  let  me  in,  and  I  see  she 
had  been  a-cryin'.  I  says, '  Have  you  heard  am- 


A  LOST  LOVER.  23 

bad  news?'  But  she  says,  'No,'  and  began  to 
cry  again,  real  pitiful.  '  I  never  felt  so  lonesome 
in  my  life,'  says  she,  '  as  I  did  down  there.  It's  a 
dreadful  thing  to  be  left  all  alone  in  the  world.' 
I  did  feel  for  her ;  but  I  couldn't  seem  to  say  a 
word.  I  put  some  pine-chips  I  had  handy  for 
morning  on  the  kitchen-fire,  and  I  made  her  up  a 
cup  o'  good  hot  tea  quick's  I  could,  and  took  it 
to  her ;  and  I  guess  she  felt  better.  She  never 
went  to  bed  till  three  o'clock  that  night.  I 
couldn't  shut  my  eyes  till  I  heard  her  come  up 
stairs.  There  !  I  set  every  thing  by  Miss  H'ratia. 
I  haven't  got  no  folks  either.  I  was  left  an  or 
phan  over  to  Deerfield,  where  Miss's  mother 
come  from,  and  she  took  me  out  o'  the  town-farm 
to  bring  up.  I  remember,  when  I  come  here,  I 
was  so  small  I  had  a  box  to  stand  up  on  when 
I  helped  wash  the  dishes.  There's  nothing  I 
ain't  had  to  make  me  comfortable,  and  I  do  just 
as  I'm  a  mind  to,  and  call  in  extra  help  even- 
day  of  the  week  if  I  give  the  word  ;  but  I've  had 
my  lonesome  times,  and  I  guess  Miss  H'ratia 
knew." 

Nelly  was  very  much  touched  by  this  bit  of  a 
stoiy,  it  was  a  new  idea  to  her  that  Melissa 
should  have  so  much  affection  and  be  so  sympa- 


24  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

tbetic.  People  never  will  get  over  being  surprised 
that  chestnut-burrs  are  not  as  rough  inside  as 
the}'  are  outside,  and  the  girl's  heart  warmed 
toward  the  old  woman  who  had  spoken  with  such 
unlooked-for  sentiment  and  pathos.  Melissa 
went  to  the  house  with  her  basket,  and  Nelly  also 
went  in,  but  only-  to  put  on  another  hat,  and  see 
if  it  were  straight,  in  a  minute  spent  before  the 
old  mirror,  and  then  she  hurried  down  the  long 
elm-shaded  street  to  buy  a  pound  of  citron  for 
the  cake.  She  left  it  on  the  kitchen-table  when 
she  came  back,  and  nobody  ever  said  any  thino- 

*.'  .'  & 

about  it ;  only  there  were  two  delicious  pound 
cakes  —  a  heart  and  a  round  —  on  a  little  blue 
china  plate  beside  Nelly's  plate  at  tea. 

After  tea  Nelly  and  Miss  Dane  sat  in  the  front- 
doorwa}',  —  the  elder  woman  in  a  high-backed 
arm-chair,  and  the  younger  on  the  doorstep.  The 
tree-toads  and  crickets  were  tuning  up  heartily, 
the  stars  showed  a  little  through  the  trees,  and 
the  elms  looked  heavy  and  black  against  the  sky. 
The  fragrance  of  the  white  lilies  in  the  garden 
blew  through  the  hall.  Miss  Horatia  was  tap 
ping  the  ends  of  her  fingers  together.  Probably 
she  was  not  thinking  of  an}'  thing  in  particular. 
She  had  had  a  very  peaceful  day,  with  the  excep- 


A  LOST  LOVER.  25 

tion  of  the  currants  ;  and  the}-  had,  after  all,  gone 
to  the  parsonage  some  time  before  noon.  Beside 
this,  the  minister  had  sent  word  that  the  delay 
made  no  trouble ;  for  his  wife  had  unexpectedly 
gone  to  Downton  to  pass  the  day  and  night. 
Miss  Horatia  had  received  the  business-letter  for 
which  she  had  been  looking  for  several  days  ;  so 
there  was  nothing  to  regret  deeph*  for  that  da}^, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  for  one  to  dread 
on  the  morrow. 

'•Cousin  Horatia,"  asked  Nelly,  "  are  you  sure 
you  like  having  me  here?  Are  }'ou  sure  I  don't 
trouble  you  ?  ' ' 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Miss  Dane,  without  a 
bit  of  sentiment  in  her  tone  :  "  I  find  it  ver}' 
pleasant  having  young  company,  though  I  am 
used  to  being  alone  ;  and  I  don't  mind  it  so  much 
as  I  suppose  you  would." 

UI  should  mind  it  very  much,"  said  the  girl 
softly. 

"  You  would  get  used  to  it,  as  I  have,"  said 
Miss  Dane.  "  Yes,  dear,  I  like  having  you  here 
better  and  better.  I  hate  to  think  of  your  going 
awa}~."  And  she  smoothed  Nelly's  hair  as  if  she 
thought  she  might  have  spoken  coldly  at  first, 
and  wished  to  make  up  for  it.  This  rare  caress 
was  not  without  its  effect. 


26  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

44  I  don't  miss  father  and  Dick  so  very  much," 
owned  Nell}'  frankly,  "  because  I  have  grown 
used  to  their  coming  and  going ;  but  sometimes  I 
miss  people  —  Cousin  lloratia,  did  I  ever  say 
an}'  thing  to  you  about  George  Forest?  " 

"•  I  think  I  remember  the  name,"  answered 
Miss  Dane. 

"He  is  in  the  navy,  and  he  has  gone  a  long 
voyage,  and —  I  think  eveiy  thing  of  him.  I 
missed  him  awfully ;  but  it  is  almost  time  to  get 
a  letter  from  him." 

"  Does  your  father  approve  of  him?  "  asked 
Miss  Dane,  with  great  propriety.  "You  are 
very  young  yet,  and  you  must  not  think  of  such 
a  thing  carelessly.  I  should  be  so  much  grieved 
if  you  threw  away  your  happiness." 

44  Oh !  we  are  not  really  engaged,"  said  Nelly, 
who  felt  a  little  chilled.  "  I  suppose  we  are,  too  : 
only  nobody  knows  yet.  Yes,  father  knows  him 
as  well  as  I  do,  and  he  is  very  fond  of  him.  Of 
course  I  should  not  keep  it  from  father ;  but  he 
guessed  at  it  himself.  Only  it's  such  a  long 
cruise,  Cousin  Horatia,  — three  }*ears,  I  suppose, 
—  away  off  in  China  and  Japan." 

44 1  have  known  longer  voyages  than  that," 
.  said  Miss  Dane,  with  a  quiver  in  her  voice  ;  and 


A   LOST  LOVER.  27 

she  rose  suddenly,  and  walked  away,  this  grave, 
reserved  woman,  who  seemed  so  contented  and 
so  comfortable.  But,  when  she  came  back,  she 
asked  Nelly  a  great  deal  about  her  lover,  and 
learned  more  of  the  girl's  life  than  she  ever  had 
before.  And  they  talked  together  in  the  pleas- 
antest  way  about  this  pleasant  subject,  which  was 
so  close  to  Nelly's  heart,  until  Melissa  brought 
the  candles  at  ten  o'clock,  that  being  the  hour  of 
Miss  Dane's  bed-time. 

But  that  night  Miss  Dane  did  not  go  to  bed  at 
ten  :  she  sat  by  the  window  in  her  room,  think 
ing.  The  moon  rose  late  ;  and  after  a  little  while 
she  blew  out  her  candles,  which  were  burning 
low.  I  suppose  that  the  years  which  had  come 
and  gone  since  the  young  sailor  went  awa}*  on 
that  last  vo3~age  of  his  had  each  added  to  her 
affection  for  him.  She  was  a  person  who  clung 
the  more  fondly  to  youth  as  she  left  it  the  farther 
behind. 

This  is  such  a  natural  thing :  the  great  sorrows 
of  our  youth  sometimes  become  the  amusements 
of  our  later  }'ears  ;  we  can  only  remember  them 
with  a  smile.  We  find  that  our  lives  look  fairer 
to  us,  and  we  forget  what  used  to  trouble  us  so 
much  when  we  look  back.  Miss  Dane  certainly 


28  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

had  come  nearer  to  truly  loving  the  sailor  than 
she  had  any  one  else ;  and  the  more  she  had 
thought  of  it,  the  more  it  became  the  romance  of 
her  life.  She  no  longer  asked  herself,  as  she 
often  had  done  in  middle  life,  whether,  if  he  had 
lived  and  had  come  home,  she  would  have  loved 
and  married  him.  She  had  minded  less  and 
less,  year  by  year,  knowing  that  her  friends  and 
neighbors  thought  her  faithful  to  the  love  of  her 
youth.  Poor,  gay,  handsome  Joe  Carrick  !  how 
fond  he  had  been  of  her,  and  how  he  had  looked 
at  her  that  day  he  sailed  away  out  of  Salem 
Harbor  on  the  ship  Chevalier !  If  she  had  only 
known  that  she  never  should  see  him  again,  poor 
fellow  ! 

But,  as  usual,  her  thoughts  changed  their  cur 
rent  a  little  at  the  end  of  her  reverie.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  loneliness  was  not  so  hard  to  bear  as 
other  sorrows.  She  had  had  a  pleasant  life,  God 
had  been  very  good  to  her,  and  had  spared  her 
many  trials,  and  granted  her  man}'  blessings. 
She  would  tiy  and  serve  him  better.  "  I  am  an 
old  woman  now,"  she  said  to  herself.  t;  Things 
are  better  as  they  are  ;  God  knows  best,  and  I 
never  should  have  liked  to  be  interfered  with." 

Then  she  shut  out  the  moonlight,  and  lighted 


A  LOST  LOVER.  29 

her  candles  again,  with  an  almost  guilt}'  feeling. 
t%  What  should  I  say  if  Nelly  sat  up  till  nearly 
midnight  looking  out  at  the  moon?  "  thought  she. 
ib  It  is  very  silly  ;  but  it  is  such  a  beautiful  night. 
I  should  like  to  have  her  see  the  moon  shining 
through  the  tops  of  the  trees."  But  Nelly  was 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  sensible  in  her 
own  room. 

Next  morning  at  breakfast  Nell}'  was  a  little 
conscious  of  there  having  been  uncommon  confi 
dences  the  night  before  ;  but  Miss  Dane  was  her 
usual  calm  and  somewhat  formal  self,  and  pro 
posed  their  making  a  few  calls  after  dinner,  if  the 
weather  were  not  too  hot.  Nelly  at  once  won 
dered  what  she  had  better  wear.  There  was  a 
certain  black  grenadine  which  Miss  Horatia  had 
noticed  with  approval,  and  she  remembered  that 
the  lower  ruffle  needed  hemming,  and  made  up 
her  mind  that  she  would  devote  most  of  the  time 
before  dinner  to  that  and  to  some  other  repairs. 
So,  after  breakfast  was  over,  she  brought  the  dress 
downstairs,  with  her  work-box,  and  settled  her 
self  in  the  dining-room.  Miss  Dane  usually  sat 
there  in  the  morning,  it  was  a  pleasant  room, 
and  she  could  keep  an  unsuspected  watch  over 
the  kitchen  and  Melissa,  who  did  not  need  watch- 


30  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

ing  in  the  least.  I  dare  say  it  was  for  the  sake 
of  being  within  the  sound  of  a  voice. 

Miss  Dane  inarched  in  and  out  that  morning ; 
she  went  upstairs,  and  came  down  again,  and  she 
was  bus}'  for  a  while  in  the  parlor.  Nelly  was 
sewing  steadily  by  a  window,  where  one  of  the 
blinds  was  a  little  way  open,  and  tethered  in  its 
place  by  a  string.  She  hummed  a  tune  to  her 
self  over  and  over  :  — 

"  What  will  you  do,  love,  when  I  am  going, 
With  white  sails  flowing,  the  seas  beyond?  " 

And  old  Melissa,  going  to  and  fro  at  her  work  in 
the  kitchen,  grumbled  out  bits  of  an  ancient 
psalm- tune  at  intervals.  There  seemed  to  be 
some  connection  between  these  fragments  in  her 
mind  ;  it  was  like  a  ledge  of  rock  in  a  pasture, 
that  sometimes  runs  under  the  ground,  and  then 
crops  out  again.  I  think  it  was  the  tune  of 
Windham. 

Nelly  found  there  was  a  good  deal  to  be  done 
to  the  grenadine  dress  wrhen  she  looked  it  over 
critically,  and  she  was  very  diligent.  It  was 
quiet  in  and  about  the  house  for  a  long  time,  until 
suddenly  she  heard  the  sound  of  heav}'  footsteps 
coming  in  from  the  road.  The  side-door  was  in 


A  LOST  LOVER.  31 

a  little  entry  between  the  room  where  Nelly  sat 
and  the  kitchen,  and  the  new-comer  knocked 
loudly.  "  A  tramp,"  said  Nell}'  to  herself;  while 
Melissa  came  to  open  the  door,  wiping  her  hands 
hurriedly  on  her  apron. 

"  I  wonder  if  3^011  couldn't  give  me  something 
to  eat,"  said  the  man. 

"I  suppose  I  could,"  answered  Melissa. 
"Will  you  step  in?"  Beggars  were  very  few  in 
Longneld,  and  Miss  Dane  never  wished  an3'body 
to  go  awa}r  hungry  from  her  house.  It  was  off 
the  grand  highway  of  tramps  ;  vbut  they  were  by 
no  means  unknown. 

Melissa  searched  among  her  stores,  and  Nelly 
heard  her  putting  one  plate  after  another  on  the 
kitchen-table,  and  thought  that  the  breakfast 
promised  to  be  a  good  one,  if  it  were  late. 

"Don't  put  yourself  out,"  said  the  man,  as 
he  moved  his  chair  nearer.  "  I  put  up  at  an  old 
barn  three  or  four  miles  above  here  last  night, 
and  there  didn't  seem  to  be  very  good  board 
there." 

"  Going  far?  "  inquired  Melissa  concisely. 

"  Boston,"  said  the  man.  "I'm  a  little  too 
old  to  travel  afoot.  Now,  if  I  could  go  b}*  water, 
it  would  seem  nearer.  I'm  more  used  to  the 


32  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

water.  This  is  a  royal  good  piece  o'  beef.  I 
suppose  3"ou  couldn't  put  your  hand  on  a  mug  of 
cider  ? ' '  This  was  said  humbly ;  but  the  tone 
failed  to  touch  Melissa's  heart. 

"No,  I  couldn't,"  said  she  decisively;  so 
there  was  an  end  of  that,  and  the  conversation 
seemed  to  flag  for  a  time. 

Presently  Melissa  came  to  speak  to  Miss 
Dane,  who  had  just  come  downstairs.  "Could 
you  stay  in  the  kitchen  a  few  minutes?"  she 
whispered.  "  There's  an  old  creatur'  there  that 
looks  foreign.  He  came  to  the  door  for  some 
thing  to  eat,  and  I  gave  it  to  him ;  but  he's 
miser'ble  looking,  and  I  don't  like  to  leave  him 
alone.  I'm  just  in  the  midst  o'  dressing  the 
chickens.  He'll  be  through  pretty  quick,  accord 
ing  to  the  way  he's  eating  now." 

Miss  Dane  followed  her  without  a  word ;  and 
the  man  half  rose,  and  said,  "  Good-morning, 
madam!"  with  unusual  courtesy.  .And,  when 
Melissa  was  out  of  hearing,  he  spoke  again  :  "I 
suppose  3'ou  haven't  any  cider?"  to  which  his 
hostess  answered,  "I  couldn't  give  you  any  this 
morning,"  in  a  tone  that  left  no  room  for  argu 
ment.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  had  a  great  deal 
too  much  to  drink  alreadj'. 


A  LOST  LOVER.  33 

' '  How  far  do  you  call  it  from  here  to  Boston  ?  ' ' 
he  asked,  and  was  told  that  it  was  eighty  miles. 

"I'm  a  slow  traveller,"  said  he:  "sailors 
don't  take  much  to  walking."  Miss  Dane  asked 
him  if  he  had  been  a  sailor.  "Nothing  else," 
replied  the  man,  who  seemed  much  inclined  to 
talk.  He  had  been  eating  like  a  hungry  dog,  as 
if  he  were  half-starved,  —  a  slouching,  red-faced, 
untidj'-looking  old  man,  with  some  traces  of 
former  good  looks  still  to  be  discovered  in  his 
face.  "Nothing  else.  I  ran  away  to  sea  when 
I  was  a  bo}',  and  I  followed  it  until  I  got  so  old 
the}'  wouldn't  ship  me  even  for  cook."  There 
was  something  in  his  being  for  once  so  comfort 
able —  perhaps  it  was  being  with  a  lad}'  like  Miss 
Dane,  who  pitied  him  —  that  lifted  his  thoughts  a 
little  from  their  usual  low  level.  "  It's  drink 
that's  been  the  ruin  of  me,"  said  he.  "  I  ought 
to  have  been  somebody.  I  was  nobody's  fool 
when  I  was  3'oung.  I  got  to  be  mate  of  a  first- 
rate  ship,  and  tliere  was  some  talk  o'  nry  being 
captain  before  long.  She  was  lost  that  voyage, 
and  three  of  us  were  all  that  was  saved ;  we  got 
picked  up  by  a  Chinese  junk.  She  had  the 
plague  aboard  of  her,  and  my  mates  died  of  it, 
and  I  was  sick.  It  was  a  hell  of  a  place  to  be  in. 


34  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

When  I  got  ashore  I  shipped  on  an  old  bark 
that  pretended  to  be  coming  round  the  Cape, 
and  she  turned  out  to  be  a  pirate.  I  just  went  to 
the  dogs,  and  I've  been  from  bad  to  worse  ever 
since." 

4 '  It's  never  too  late  to  mend,"  said  Melissa, 
who  came  into  the  kitchen  just  then  for  a  string 
to  tie  the  chickens. 

"Lord  help  us,  yes,  it  is  !  "  said  the  sailor. 
"It's  eas}"  for  you  to  sa}r  that.  I'm  too  old.  I 
ain't  been  master  of  this  craft  for  a  good  while." 
And  he  laughed  at  his  melancholy  joke. 

"Don't  say  that,"  said  Miss  Dane. 

"Well,  now,  what  could  an  old  wrack  like  me 
do  to  earn  a  living?  and  who'd  want  me  if  I 
could?  You  wouldn't.  I  don't  know  when  I've 
'been  treated  so  decent  as  this  before.  I'm  all 
broke  down."  But  his  tone  was  no  longer  sin 
cere  ;  he  had  fallen  back  on  his  profession  of 
beggar. 

"Couldn't  3'ou  get  into  so"me  asylum  or  — 
there's  the  Sailors'  Snug  Harbor,  isn't  that  for 
men  like  you?  It  seems  such  a  pity  for  a  man 
of  your  3'ears  to  be  homeless  and  a  wanderer. 
Haven't  you  any  friends  at  all?  "  And  here,  sud 
denly,  Miss  Dane's  face  altered,  and  she  grew 


A  LOST  LOVER.  35 

very  white  ;  something  startled  her.  She  looked 
as  one  might  who  saw  a  fearful  ghost. 

"  No,"  said  the  man  ;  "  but  1x13*  folks  used  to 
be  some  of  the  best  in  Salem.  I  haven't  shown 
my  head  there  this  good  while.  I  was  an  orphan. 
My  grandmother  brought  me  up.  Why,  I  didn't 
come  back  to  the  States  for  thirty  or  forty  years. 
Along  at  the  first  of  it  I  used  to  see  men  in  port 
that  I  used  to  know  ;  but  I  always  dodged  'em, 
and  I  was  wa}-  off' in  outlandish  places.  I've  got 
an  awful  sight  to  answer  for.  I  used  to  have  a 
good  wife  when  I  was  in  Australia.  I  don't  know 
where  I  haven't  been,  first  and  last.  I  was  always 
a  hard  fellow.  I've  spent  as  much  as  a  couple 
o'  fortunes,  and  here  I  am.  Devil  take  it !  " 

Nelly  was  still  sewing  in  the  dining-room  ;  but, 
soon  after  Miss  Dane  had  gone  out  to  the  kitchen, 
one  of  the  doors  between  had  slowly  closed  itself 
with  a  plaintive  whine.  The  round  stone  that 
Melissa  used  to  keep  it  open  had  been  pushed 
away.  Nelly  was  a  little  anno}*ed  :  she  liked  to 
hear  what  was  going  on  ;  but  she  was  just  then 
holding  her  work  with  great  care  in  a  place  that 
was  hard  to  sew  ;  so  she  did  not  move.  She  heard 
the  murmur  of  voices,  and  thought,  after  a  while, 
that  the  old  vagabond  ought  to  go  away  Iry  this 


36  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

time.  What  could  be  making  her  cousin  Horatia 
talk  so  long  with  him?  It  was  not  like  her  at 
all.  He  would  beg  for  mone}',  of  course,  and 
she  hoped  Miss  Horatia  would  not  give  him  a 
single  cent. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  kitchen-door 
opened,  and  the  man  came  out  with  clumsy, 
stumbling  steps.  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you," 
he  said,  "  and  I  don't  know  but  it  is  the  last  time 
I'll  get  treated  as  if  I  was  a  gentleman.  Is  there 
any  thing  I  could  do  for  you  round  the  place?  " 
he  asked  hesitatingly,  and  as  if  he  hoped  that 
his  offer  would  not  be  accepted. 

"No,"  answered  Miss  Dane.  "No,  thank 
you.  Good-by  !  "  and  he  went  away. 

I  said  he  had  been  lifted  a  little  above  his  low 
life ;  he  fell  back  again  directly  before  he  was 
out  of  the  gate.  "  I'm  blessed  if  she  didn't  give 
me  a  ten-dollar  bill !  "  said  he.  "  She  must  have 
thought  it  was  one.  I'll  get  out  o'  call  as  quick 
as  I  can,  hope  she  won't  find  it  out,  and  send 
aivybody  after  me."  Visions  of  unlimited  drinks, 
and  other  things  in  which  the  old  sailor  found 
pleasure,  flitted  through  his  stupid  mind.  "  How 
the  old  lady  stared  at  me  once!"  he  thought. 
"Wonder  if  she  was  anybody  I  used  to  know? 


A  LOST  LOVER.  37 

'  Downton?  '  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  heard  of  the 
place."  And  he  scuffed  along  the  dnsty  road; 
and  that  night  he  was  very  drunk,  and  the  next 
da}'  he  went  wandering  on,  God  only  knows 
where. 

But  Nell}'  and  Melissa  both  had  heard  a  strange 
noise  in  the  kitchen,  as  if  some  one  had  fallen, 
and  had  found  that  Miss  Horatia  had  fainted 
dead  away.  It  was  partly  the  heat,  she  said, 
when  she  saw  their  anxious  faces  as  she  came  to 
herself;  she  had  had  a  little  headache  all  the 
morning-;  it  was  very  hot  and  close  in  the  kitchen, 
and  the  faintness  had  come  upon  her  suddenly. 
They  helped  her  walk  into  the  cool  parlor  pres 
ently,  and  Melissa  brought  her  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  Nelly  sat  beside  her  on  a  footstool  as  she  lay 
on  the  sofa,  and  fanned  her.  Once  she  held  her 
cheek  against  Miss  Iloratia's  hand  for  a  minute, 
and  she  will  never  know  as  long  as  she  lives  what 
a  comfort  she  was  that  day. 

Every  one  but  Miss  Dane  forgot  the  old  sailor- 
tramp  in  this  excitement  that  followed  his  visit. 
Do  3'ou  guess  already  who  he  was  ?  But  the  cer 
tainty  could  not  come  to  you  with  the  chill  and 
horror  it  did  to  Miss  Dane.  There  had  been 
something  familiar  in  his  look  and  voice  from  the 


38  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

first,  and  then  she  had  suddenly  known  him,  her 
lost  lover.  It  was  an  awful  change  that  the  years 
had  made  in  him.  He  had  truly  called  himself  a 
wreck :  he  was  like  some  dreary  wreck  in  its 
decay  and  utter  ruin,  its  miserable  ugliness  and 
worthlessness,  falling  to  pieces  in  the  slow  tides 
of  a  lifeless  southern  sea. 

And  he  had  once  been  her  lover,  Miss  Dane 
thought  many  times  in  the  days  that  came  after. 
Not  that  there  was  ever  any  thing  asked  or 
promised  between,  them,  but  the}'  had  liked  each 
other  dearly,  and  had  parted  with  deep-  sorrow. 
She  had  thought  of  him  all  these  }Tears  so 
tenderly ;  she  had  believed  always  that  his  love 
had  been  greater  than  her  own,  and  never  once 
had  doubted  that  the  missing  ship  Chevalier  had 
carried  with  it  down  into  the  sea  a  heart  that  was 
true  to  her. 

B}'  little  and  little  this  all  grew  familiar,  and 
she  accustomed  herself  to  the  knowledge  of 
her  rtew  secret.  She  shuddered  at  the  thought 
of  the  misery  of  a  life  with  him,  and  she  thanked 
God  for  sparing  her  such  shame  and  despair. 
The  distance  between  them  seemed  immense. 
She  had  been  a  person  of  so  much  consequence 
among  her  friends,  and  so  dutiful  and  irreproach- 


A  LOST  LOVER.  39 

able  a  woman.  She  had  not  begun  to  understand 
what  dishonor  is  in  the  world  ;  her  life  had  been 
shut  in  by  safe  and  orderly  surroundings.  It  was 
a  strange  chance  that  had  brought  this  wanderer 
to  her  door.  She  remembered  his  wretched  unti 
diness.  She  would  not  have  liked  even  to  touch 
him.  She  had  never  imagined  him  grown  old : 
lie  had  always  been  young  to  her.  It  was  a  great 
mercy  he  had  not  known  her ;  it  would  have  been 
a  most  miserable  position  for  them  both  ;  and  }*et 
she  thought,  with  sad  surprise,  ihat  she  had  not 
known  she  had  changed  so  entirety.  She  thought 
of  the  different  ways  their  roads  in  life  had  gone ; 
she  pitied  him ;  she'  cried  about  him  more  than 
once  ;  and  she  wished  that  she  could  know  he  was 
dead.  He  might  have  been  such  a  brave,  good 
man,  with  his  strong  will  and  resolute  courage. 
God  forgive  him  for  the  wickedness  which  his 
strength  had  been  made  to  serve  !  "  God  forgive 
him!"  said  Miss  Iloratia  to  herself  sadly  over 
and  over  again.  She  wondered  if  she  ought  to 
have  let  him  go  aw  a}',  and  so  have  lost  sight  of 
him  ;  but  she  could  not  do  any  thing  else.  She 
suffered  terribly  on  his  account ;  she  had  a  pity, 
such  as  God's  pity  must  be,  for  even  his  wilful 
sins. 


40  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

So  her  romance  was  all  over  with ;  yet  the 
towns-people  still  whispered  it  to  strangers,  and 
even  Melissa  and  Nelly  never  knew  how  she  had 
lost  her  lover  in  so  strange  and  sad  a  wa}'  in  her 
latest  years.  Nobody  noticed  much  change  ;  but 
Melissa  saw  that  the  whale's  tooth  had  dis 
appeared  from  its  place  in  Miss  Horatia's  room, 
and  her  old  friends  said  to  each  other  that  she 
began  to  show  her  age  a  great  deal.  She  seemed 
really  like  an  old  woman  now  ;  she  was  not  the 
woman  she  had  been  a  }*ear  ago. 

This  is  all  of  the  stoiy ;  but  I  so  often  wish 
when  a  story  comes  to  an  end  that  I  knew  what 
became  of  the  people  afterward.  Shall  I  tell  you 
that  Miss  Horatia  clings  more  and  more  fondly  to 
her  young  cousin  Nelly  ;  and  that  Nelly  will  stay 
with  her  a  great  deal  before  she  marries,  and 
sometimes  afterward,  when  the  lieutenant  goes 
away  to  sea  ?  Shall  I  say  that  Miss  Dane  seems  as 
well  satisfied  and  comfortable  as  ever,  though  she 
acknowledges  she  is  not  so  3"oung  as  she  used  to 
be,  and  somehow  misses  something  out  of  her 
life?  It  is  the  contentment  of  winter  rather  than 
that  of  summer :  the  flowers  are  out  of  bloom  for 
her  now,  and  under  the  snow.  And  Melissa,  will 
not  she  always  be  the  same,  with  a  quaintness 


A  LOST  LOVER.  41 

and  freshness  and  toughness  like  a  cedar-tree,  to 
the  end  of  her  da}~s?  Let  us  hope  the}*  will  live 
on  together  and  be  untroubled  this  long  time  yet, 
the  two  good  women  ;  and  let  us  wish  Nelly  much 
pleasure,  and  a  sweet  soberness  and  fearlessness 
as  she  grows  older  and  finds  life  a  harder  thing  to 
understand  and  a  graver  thing  to  know. 


A   SORROWFUL   GUEST. 

| EAR  HELENS",  — What  do  you  say  to  our  going 
to  housekeeping  together  ?  I'm  a  very  old 
bachelor,  with  many  whims;  but  I'm  your 
brother,  and  I  don't  know  that  there  was  ever 
an  act  of  Parliament  that  we  should  spend  our  lives  on 
opposite  shores  of  the  Atlantic.  The  Athertons'  lease 
of  our  house  is  out  next  month,  and  I  have  a  fancy  for 
taking  it  myself.  We  will  call  it  merely  an  experiment, 
if  you  like;  but  I'm  tired  of  the  way  I  live  now.  I'm 
growing  gray,  and  I  shall  be  dreadfully  glad  to  see 
you.  We  will  make  a  real  home  of  it,  and  see  some 
thing  of  each  other;  you  must  not  ask  for  any  more 
pathos  than  this.  Pick  up  whatever  you  can  to  make 
the  house  look  fine,  but  don't  feel  in  the  least  obliged 
to  come,  or  put  it  off  until  the  spring.  Do  just  as  you 
like.  I  hear  the  Duncans  are  coming  home  in  October; 
perhaps  you  could  take  passage  on  the  same  steamer. 
1  can't  believe  it  is  three  years  since  I  went  over  last. 
Do  you  think  we  shall  know  each  other?  " L' 'absence 
diminue  lespetits  amours  et  augment e  les  f/randes,  comme 
le  vent  qui  eteinl  les  bougies  et  rallume  la  feu."  I  met 
that  sentiment  in  a  story  I  was  reading  to-day,  and  I 
thought  it  would  seem  very  gallant  and  alluring  if  I  put 
42 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  43 

it  into  my  letter.  I  think  you  will  not  be  homesick 
here:  you  will  find  more  friends  than  seems  possible  at 
first  thought.  I'm  in  a  hurry  to-day;  but  I'm  none  the 
less  Your  very  affectionate  brother, 

JOHN  AINSLIE. 

BOSTON,  Aug.  2,  1877. 


This  was  a  letter  which  came  to  me  one  morn 
ing  a  year  or  two  ago  from  my  only  brother. 
We  had  been  separated  most  of  the  time  since 
our  childhood  ;  for  my  father  and  mother  both 
died  then,  and  our  home  was  broken  up,  as  Jack 
was  to  be  away  at  school  and  college.  During 
the  war  he  was  fired  with  a  love  of  his  country 
and  a  longing  for  military  gloiy,  and  entered  the 
army  with  man}*  of  his  fellow-students  at  Harvard. 
I  was  at  school  for  a  time,  but  afterwards  went 
to  live  with  an  aunt,  whose  winter  home  wras  in 
Florence  ;  and  when  Jack  left  the  arm}*  he  came 
to  Europe  to  go  on  with  his  professional  studies. 
He  was  most  of  the  time  in  Dublin  and  London 
and  Paris  at  the  medical  schools ;  but  we  were 
together  a  good  deal,  and  he  went  off  for  several 
long  journeys  with  my  aunt  and  me  before  he 
went  back  to  America.  I  alwa}-s  hoped  that  we 
might  some  clay  live  together  :  but  my  aunt  wished 
me  never  to  leave  her ;  for  she  was  somewhat  of 


44  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

an  invalid,  and  had  grown  to  depend  on  me  more 
or  less  in  many  waj-s.  She  could  not  live  in 
Boston,  for  the  climate  did  not  suit  her.  If  Jack 
and  I  had  not  written  each  other  so  often,  we 
should  have  drifted  far  apart ;  but,  as  it  was,  I 
think  our  love  and  friendship  grew  closer  year  by 
year.  I  should  have  begged  him  to  come  to  live 
writh  me ;  but  he  was  always  in  a  hurry  to  get 
back  to  his  own  city  and  his  own  friends  when 
he  sometimes  came  over  to  pay  us  a  visit  in  my 
aunt's  lifetime,  and  I  knew  he  would  not  be  con 
tented  in  Florence. 

At  Aunt  Alice's  death  I  went  on  with  the  same 
old  life  for  a  time  from  force  of  habit ;  and  it  was 
just  then,  when  I  was  with  some  friends  in  the 
Tyrol,  and  had  been  wondering  what  plans  I 
should  make  for  the  winter,  —  whether  to  go  to 
Egypt  again,  or  to  have  some  English  friends 
come  to  me  in  Florence,  —  that  Jack's  letter 
came.  I  was  only  too  glad  that  he  made  the 
proposal,  and  I  could  not  resist  sending  him  a 
cable  despatch  to  say,  "Hurrah!  "  I  had  not 
realized  before  how  lonery  and  adrift  I  had  felt 
since  Aunt  Alice  died.  I  had  a  host  of  kind 
friends  ;  but  there  is  nothing  like  being  with  one's 
own  kindred,  and  having  one's  own  home.  It 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  45 

was  very  hard  work  to  say  so  man}*  good-byes  ; 
and  my  heart  had  almost  failed  me  when  I  saw 
some  of  my  friends  for,  it  might  be,  the  last  time, 
as  some  of  them  were  old  people.  And,  though 
I  said  over  and  over  again  that  I  should  come 
back  in  a  year  or  two,  who  could  be  certain  that 
I  should  take  up  the  dear  familiar  life  again? 
But,  though  I  had  been  so  many  long  years  away 
from  dear  old  Boston,  I  never  had  been  so  glad 
in  my  life  to  catch  sight  of  any  city  as  I  was  that 
chilly,  late  October  morning,  when  I  came  on 
deck,  and  somebody  pointed  out  to  me  a  dull 
glitter  of  something  that  looked  higher  and 
brighter  than  the  land,  and  said  it  was  the  dome 
of  the  State  House. 

I  felt  more  sure  than  ever  that  I  was  going 
home  when  I  saw  my  brother  standing  on  the 
wharf,  and  I  remembered  so  clearly  many  of  the 
streets  we  drove  through ;  and  when  we  came  to 
the  house  itself,  and  the  carriage  had  gone,  and 
we  stood  in  the  library  together  where  the  very 
same  books  were  in  the  cases,  and  the  same  dim 
old  Turkey  carpet  on  the  floor,  the  }rears  seemed 
suddenly  to  vanish,  and  it  was  like  the  dear  old 
childish  days  again  :  only  where  were  my  mother 
and  1113'  father?  And  Jack  was  growing  gra}r,  as 


46  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

he  had  written  me,  and  so  much  had  happened  to 
me  since  I  had  been  in  that  room  last !  I  sat 
down  before  the  wood-fire  ;  and  the  queer  brass 
dragons  on  the  andirons  made  me  smile,  just  as 
they  always  used.  Jack  stood  at  the  window, 
looking  out ;  and  neither  of  us  had  a  word  to  sa}T, 
though  we  had  chattered  at  each  other  eveiy  min 
ute  as  we  drove  over  from  the  steamer. 

That  first  evening  at  dinner  I  looked  across  the 
table  at  my  brother ;  and  our  eyes  met,  and  we 
both  laughed  heartily  for  very  contentment  and 
delight. 

"  I'm  sure  Aunt  Marion  ought  to  be  here  to 
matronize  3'ou,"  said  Jack.  Neither  of  us  like 
Aunt  Marion  vciy  well ;  and  this  was  a  great  joke, 
especially  as  she  was  ushered  in  directly  to  wel 
come  me  home. 

Jack  had  been  living  at  the  house  for  a  few 
weeks  already ;  but  it  was  great  fun,  this  begin 
ning  our  housekeeping  together,  and  we  were 
busy  enough  for  some  time.  I  had  brought  over 
a  good  maiw  things  that  my  aunt  had  had  in 
Florence,  and  to  which  I  had  become  attached ; 
and  in  the  course  pf  many  journeys  both  Jack 
and  I  had  accumulated  a  great  man}-  large  and 
small  treasures,  some  of  which  had  not  been 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  47 

unpacked  for  years.  I  very  soon  knew  my 
brother's  best  friends  ;  and- we  both  tried  to  make 
our  home  not  only  cheerful  and  bright  and  pleas 
ant  in  every  way,  but  we  wished  also  to  make  it 
a  home-like  place,  where  people  might  be  sure  of 
finding  at  least  some  S3'inpatlry  and  true  friendli 
ness  and  help  as  well  as  pleasure.  Mamma's  old 
friends  were  charmingly  kind  and  polite  to  me  ; 
and,  as  Jack  had  foretold,  I  found  more  acquaint 
ances  of  my  own  than  I  had  the  least  idea  I 
should.  I  had  met  abroad  a  great  many  of  the 
people  who  came  to  see  me ;  but  the  strangest 
thing  was  to  meet  those  whom  I  remembered  as 
my  pLTymates  and  schoolmates,  and  to  find  them 
so  entire!}'  grown  up,  most  of  them  married,  and 
with  homes  and  children  of  their  own  instead  of 
the  playhouses  and  dolls  which  I  remembered. 

We  soon  fell  into  a  most  comfortable  fashion 
of  living,  we  were  both  very  fond  of  giving  quiet 
little  dinners,  my  brother  often  brought  home  a 
friend  or  two,  and  we  were  charmingly  independ 
ent  ;  life  never  went  better  with  two  people  than 
it  did  with  Jack  and  me.  We  often  had  some 
old  friends  of  the  famih'  come  to  sta}'  with  us, 
and  I  sent  hither  and  yon  for  my  own  old  cro 
nies,  with  some  of  whom  I  had  kept  up  our 


48  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

friendship  since  school-days  ;  and,  while  it  was 
not  a  little  sad  to  meet  some  of  them  again,  with 
others  I  felt  as  if  we  had  only  parted  yester 
day. 

I  had  been  curious  to  know  man}'  things  about 
Jack,  and  I  found  I  had  been  right  in  supposing 
that  his  profession  was  by  no  means  a  burden  to 
him.  I  was  told  again  and  again  that  he  was  a 
wonderfully  successful  and  daring  surgeon ;  but 
he  confessed  to  me  that  his  dislike  to  such  work 
continually  increased,  and  could  only  be  overcome 
in  the  excitement  of  some  desperate  emergency' . 
It  seemed  to  me  at  first  that  he  ought  not  to  let 
his  skill  lie  useless  and  idle  ;  but  he  insisted  that 
the  other  doctors  did  as  well  as  he,  that  they  sent 
for  him  if  the}T  wanted  him,  and  he  did  not  care 
for  a  practice  of  his  own.  So  he  had  grown  into 
a  way  of  helping  his  friends  with  their  business  ; 
and  he  was  a  microscopist  of  some  renown,  and  a 
scientific  man,  instead  of  the  practical  man  he 
ought  to  have  been,  —  though  his  was,  after  all,  by 
no  means  an  idle  nor  a  useless  life,  dear  old 
Jack !  He  did  a  great  deal  of  good  shyly  and 
quietly ;  he  was  often  at  the  hospitals,  and  his 
friends  seemed  very  fond  of  him,  and  said  he  had 
too  little  confidence  in  himself.  I  have  often 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  49 

wondered  why  he  did  not  marry  ;  but  I  doubt  if 
he  ever  tells  me,  though  he  knows  well  enough 
my  own  story,  and  that  there  is  a  quiet  grave  in 
Florence  which  is  always  in  sight,  no  matter  how 
far  awa}'  from  it  I  go,  while  sometimes  I  think  I 
know  every  hy^leaf  that  falls  on  it  from  the  wall 
near  by. 

As  I  have  said,  my  brother  was  constantly 
meeting  some  one  of  his  old  classmates  or  army 
comrades  or  school  friends  during  that  first  win 
ter  ;  and,  while  sometimes  he  would  ask  them  to 
dine  at  his  club,  he  oftener  brought  them  home 
to  dine  or  to  lunch  ;  for  we  were  both  possessed 
with  an  amazing  spirit  of  hospitality.  I  wish  I 
could  remember  half  the  stories  I  have  heard,  or 
could  keep  track  of  the  lives  in  which  I  often 
grew  much  interested.  There  is  one  curious  story 
which  1  knew,  and  which  seems  very  well  worth 
telling,  —  an  instance  of  the  curious  entanglement 
of  two  lives,  and  of  those  strange  experiences 
which  some  people  call  supernatural,  and  others 
think  simple  enough  and  perfectly  reasonable  and 
explainable. 

One  short,  snowy  December  day,  just  as  it  was 
growing  dark,  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  libraiy, 
and  was  surprised  to  hear  my  brother's  latch-key 


50  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

click  in  the  hall-door  ;  for  he  had  told  me,  when  he 
went  out  after  our  very  late  breakfast,  that  he 
should  not  be  in  before  six,  and  perhaps  dinner 
had  better  wait  until  seven.  He  threw  off  his 
wet  ulster,  and  was  talking  for  some  time  to  the 
man,  and  at  last  came  in  to  me. 

"  What  brings  you  home  so  early?  "  said  I. 

"I'm  going  to  have  two  or  three  friends  to 
dine.  I  suppose  it'll  be  all  right  about  the  din 
ner?  That  was  not  why  I  came  home,  though  :  I 
had  some  letters  to  write  which  must  go  by  the 
steamer,  and  I  didn't  go  to  Cambridge  after  all. 
The  snow-storm  was  too  much  for  me,  I  wanted 
a  good  light  there." 

"  Sit  down  a  while,"  said  I.  "  You  have  time 
enough  for  }'our  letters  ;  it's  only  a  little  after 
four."  Jack  hated  to  write  at  the  library- table, 
and  always  went  to  the  desk  in  his  own  book- 
room  if  he  had  any  thing  to  do.  He  seemed  a 
little  tired,  and  threw  me  some  letters  the  post 
man  had  given  him  as  he  came  in  at  the  door ; 
then  he  sat  clown  in  his  great  chair  near  me,  and 
seemed  to  be  lost  in  thought.  He  was  immensely 
interesting  to  me  then  ;  for  we  had  only  been  to 
gether  a  few  weeks,  and  I  was  often  curious 
about  his  moods,  and  was  apt  to  be  much  pained 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  51 

nwself  if  an}'  thing  seemed  to  trouble  him.  I 
was  alwa}~s  wishing  we  had  not  been  separated 
so  much,  and  I  was  afraid  I  might  be  wanting  in 
insight  and  sj'inpathy ;  but  I  think  the  truth  has 
been  that  we  are  much  more  intimate,  and  are  far 
better  friends,  and  have  less  restraint,  because  we 
had  seen  so  little  of  one  another  in  the  years  that 
had  passed.  But  we  were  terribly  afraid  of  inter 
fering  with  each  other  at  first,  and  were  so  dis- 
tractingly  polite  that  we  bored  each  other  not  a 
little ;  though  that  did  not  last  long,  happily, 
after  we  had  convinced  each  other  that  we  could 
behave  well. 

"You  say  it'll  be  all  right  about  dinner?" 
repeated  my  brother. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  I,  "unless  you  wish  for 
something  very  grand.  Would  you  like  to  have 
me  put  on  my  crown  and  sceptre  ?  ' ' 

"There  has  never  been  a  day  yet  when  I 
should  have  been  sony  to  have  brought  a  friend 
home,"  said  Jack,  with  a  good  deal  of  enthusi 
asm,  and  I  was  at  once  puffed  up  with  pride  ;  for 
Jack,  though  an  uncomplaining  soul,  was  also  fas 
tidious,  and  his  praise  was  not  given  often 
enough  to  be  unnoticed. 

"I  met  an  old  classmate  just  now,"  said  he 


52  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

presently,  rousing  himself  from  his  reverie.  "I 
haven't  seen  him  for  years  before.  He  went  out 
to  South  America  just  after  the  war,  and  I  sup 
posed  he  was  there  still.  He  used  to  be  one  of 
the  best  fellows  in  the  class ;  and  he  enlisted 
when  I  did,  though  we  did  not  belong  to  the 
same  compairy.  I  heard  once  he  was  rather 
a  failure  ;  but  something  has  broken  him  down 
horribly.  He  doesn't  look  as  if  he  drank,"  said 
my  brother,  half  to  himself.  "I  met  him  over 
on  Tremont  Street,  and  I  think  he  meant  to  avoid 
me ;  but  I  made  him  walk  across  the  Common 
with  me,  for  he  was  coming  this  wa}\  He  prom 
ised  to  come  to  dinner  this  evening  ;  and  I  stopped 
at  the  club  a  few  minutes  as  I  came  down  the 
street,  and  luckily  found  George  Sheffield,  and 
lie  is  coming  round  too.  I  told  him  seven 
o'clock,  but  I  told  Whiston  we  dined  at  six, 
without  thinking  ;  so  he  will  be  here  early.  Never 
mind  :  I'll  be  ready,  and  we  will  take  care  of  our 
selves.  I  must  finish  my  letters,  though,"  and 
he  rose  from  his  chair  to  go  upstairs.  "It  is 
dreadful  to  see  a  man  change  so,"  said  Jack,  still 
lingering.  "  He  used  to  be  one  of  the  friskiest 
fellows  in  college.  I  hope  he'll  come.  I  didn't 
exactly  like  to  ask  where  I  could  find  him." 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  53 

Then  he  went  awa}' :  and  I  waited  awhile,  look 
ing  out  at  the  snow,  and  thinking  idly  enough, 
until  Patrick  came  silently  in,  and  surprised  me 
with  a  sudden  blaze  of  gafe  ;  when  I  went  upstairs 
to  dress  for  dinner,  as  there  didn't  seem  to  be 
any  thing  else  to  do.  I  was  a  little  soriy  that 
any  one  was  coming.  Jack  and  I  had  arranged 
for  a  quiet  evening  together,  and  he  was  reading 
some  new  book  aloud  in  which  I  was  much  inter 
ested.  His  reading  was  a  perfect  delight  to  me. 
He  did  not  force  }'ou  to  think  how  well  he  read, 
but  rather  how  charming  the  stoiy  or  the  poem 
was  ;  and  I  always  liked  Jack's  voice. 

I  found  something  to  be  busy  about  in  my  room, 
and  did  not  come  down  again  until  some  time 
after  six.  When  I  entered  the  parlor,  Jack  arose 
with  a  satisfied  smile,  and  presented  Mr.  Whiston  ; 
and  I  was  pleasantly  surprised,  for  I  had  half 
expected  to  see  a  most  forlorn-looking  man,  per 
haps  even  out  at  elbows,  from  what  Jack  had 
said.  He  was  very  pale  indeed,  and  looked  like 
an  invalid  ;  and  he  certainly  looked  frightened 
and  miserable.  He  had  a  hunted  look.  It  was 
the  face  I  should  imagine  one  would  have  who 
was  haunted  by  the  memory  of  some  awful  crime  ; 
but  I  both  pitied  him  and  liked  him  very  much. 


54  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

He  said  he  remembered  seeing  me  one  day  out 
at  Cambridge  with  my  brother  when  I  was  hardly 
more  than  a  child  ;  and  we  talked  about  those 
old  da}*s  until  my  cousin  George  Sheffield  came, 
Jack's  best  friend,  who  had  also  been  Mr.  Whis- 
ton's  classmate. 

I  fancied,  as  we  went  out  to  dinner,  that  our 
guest  would  enjoy  the  evening,  his  friends  were 
giving  him  so  hearty  and  cordial  a  welcome  ;  and 
I  was  glad  the  table  looked  so  bright  with  its 
roses  and  fruit,  and  its  glittering  glass.  I  some 
how  looked  at  it  through  his  eyes.  His  face 
lighted  a  little,  as  if  he  thought  he  should  dine 
to  his  liking.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  poor  ;  but 
he  was  most  carefully  dressed,  and  I  grew  more 
and  more  curious  about  him,  while  I  liked  him 
better  and  better  for  the  grace  of  his  good  man 
ners,  and  for  his  charming!}'  bright  and  clever 
way  of  talking.  He  spoke  freely  of  his  South- 
American  life,  and  of  being  in  Europe  ;  but  there 
was  something  about  him  which  made  neither  of 
his  friends  dare  to  ask  him  many  questions.  I 
could  see  that  nry  cousin  George  was  in  a  great 
hurry  to  know  more  of  his  history,  for  they  had 
been  veiy  good  friends,  and  he  had  lost  sight  of 
Mr.  Winston  years  before,  and  had  been  amazed 


A  SORROWFUL   GUEST.  55 

when  he  was  asked  to  meet  him  that  evening. 
The}'  talked  a  great  deal  about  their  Harvard 
days,  and  grew  more  and  more  merry  with  each 
other ;  but,  when  Mr.  Winston's  face  was  quiet, 
the  look  of  fear  and  melancholy  was  always 
noticeable. 

When  dinner  was  over,  I  went  away  to  see  one 
of  my  friends  who  came  in  just  then.  I  could 
hear  the  gentlemen  laughing  together,  and  I  stood 
talking  in  the  hall  some  time  with  my  friend  be 
fore  she  went  away ;  but  at  last  I  went  back  to 
the  dining-room,  for  I  always  liked  my  tea  there 
with  Jack  better  than  in  the  parlor.  I  took  my 
chair  again  ;  and  I  was  glad  to  find  I  did  not  in 
terrupt  them,  of  which  I  had  a  sudden  fear  as  I 
entered  the  door. 

The}'  were  talking  over  their  army  life  ;  and  my 
brother  said,  "  That  was  the  same  day  poor  Fred 
Hathaway  was  killed,  wasn't  it?  I  never  shall: 
forget  seeing  his  dead  face.  We  had  thrown  a 
dozen  or  more  men  in  a  pile,  and  meant  to  bury 
them;  but  there  was  an  alarm,  and  we  had  to 
hurry  forward  again,  what  there  was  left  of  us. 
I  caught  sight  of  Fred,  and  I  remember  now  just 
how  he  looked.  You  know  what  yellow  hair  he 
had,  and  we  used  to  call  him  The  Pretty  Saxon. 


.56  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

I  know  there  were  one  or  two  men  in  that  pile 
still  alive,  and  moving  a  little.  I  hardly  thought 
of  the  horror  of  it  as  I  went  b}*.  How  used  we 
were  to  such  sights  in  those  clays !  and  now 
sometimes  they  come  to  me  like  horrid  night 
mares.  Dunster  was  killed  that  day  too.  Some 
body  saw  him  fall,  and  I  suppose  he  was  thrown 
in  a  hurry  into  one  of  the  trenches ;  but  he  was 
put  down  as  missing  in  the  reports.  You  know 
they  drove  us  back  toward  night,  and  held  that 
piece  of  cleared  land  and  the  pine-woods  for  two 
days." 

"It  all  seems  like  a  dream  to  me  now,"  said 
George  Sheffield.  "What  boys  we  were  too! 
But  I  believe  I  never  shall  feel  so  old  again." 

"You  are  such  comfortable  people  in  these 
da}~s,"  said  I,  "  that  I  can't  imagine  }'ou  as  sol 
diers  living  such  a  rough  and  cruel  life  as  that 
must  have  been." 

I  happened  to  look  up  at  Mr.  Whiston  ;  and  to 
m}'  dismay  he  looked  paler  than  ever,  and  was 
uneasy.  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  as  if  he 
knew  a  ghost  was  standing  there,  and  he  followed 
something  with  his  eyes  for  a  moment  or  two  in  a 
way  that  gave  me  a  little  chill  of  fear.  I  looked 
over  at  Jack  to  know  if  he  was  watching  also, 


A    SORROWFUL   GUEST.  57 

and  I  was  rejoiced  when  he  suddenly  nodded  to 
me,  and  asked  George  Sheffield  something  about 
the  cigars  ;  and  George,  who  had  also  noticed, 
answered  him,  and  began  to  talk  to  me  about  an 
opera  which  we  had  both  heard  the  evening  be 
fore.  I  did  not  know  whether  the}'  had  chanced 
upon  an  unlucky  subject,  or  whether  Mr.  Whiston 
was  crazy  ;  but  at  any  rate  he  seemed  ill  at  ease, 
and  was  not  inclined  to  talk  an}'  more.  He 
looked  gloomier  and  more  frightened  than  ever. 
I  went  into  the  library,  and  presently  they  fol 
lowed  me  ;  and  Mr.  Whiston  came  to  say  good 
night,  though,  when  Jack  insisted  that  he  should 
not  go  away  so  early,  —  for  it  was  only  half-past 
nine,  —  he  sat  down  again  with  a  half-sigh,  as  if 
it  made  little  difference  to  him  where  he  was. 

"You're  not  well,  I'm  afraid,  Whiston,"  said 
my  brother  in  his  most  professional  tone.  "I 
think  I  shall  have  to  look  after  }*ou  a  little.  By 
the  way,  are  you  at  a  hotel?  I  wish  you  would 
come  to  us  for  a  few  days.  I'll  drive  you  to 
Cambridge,  and  you  know  there  are  a  good  many 
of  your  old  friends  here  in  town."  And  I 
seconded  this  invitation,  though  I  most  devoutly 
hoped  it  would  not  be  accepted.  I  had  a  suspi 
cion  that  he  would  be  a  most  uncomfortable 
guest. 


58  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Ainslie,"  said  he,  with  a 
quick,  pleasant  smile,  that  brought  baek  my  first 
liking  for  him.  "  You're  very  good,  but  I'm  not 
exactly  in  trim  for  paying  visits.  I  will  come 
to  you  for  to-morrow  night,  Ainslie,  if  you  like. 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  and  Sheffield  again 
—  to  say  good -by.  I  am  going  out  in  the  Mar 
athon  on  Saturday." 

Later,  when  he  had  gone,  Jack  and  my  cousin 
and  I  had  a  talk  about  this  strange  guest  of  ours. 
"  Is  he  crazy?  "  said  I  to  begin  with  ;  "  and  did 
3'ou  see  him  look  at  a  ghost  at  dinner?  I'm  sure 
it  was  a  ghost."  And  George  Sheffield  laughed  ; 
but  one  of  us  was  as  much  puzzled  as  the  other. 
"I  thought  at  first  he  was  melodramatic,"  said 
he  ;  "  but  there's  something  wrong  about  him.  Is 
he  crazy,  do  you  think,  Jack?  You're  lucky  in 
having  a  doctor  in  the  house,  Helen,  if  he  does 
come  back." 

"He's  not  crazy,"  said  Jack;  "at  least  I 
think  not.  I  have  been  watching  him.  But  he 
is  no  doubt  shattered  ;  he  may  have  some  mono 
mania,  and  I'm  afraid  he  takes  opium." 

"  I  should  urge  him  to  spend  the  winter,"  said 
George  serenely,  "  and  what's  the  difference 
between  having  a  monomania  and  being  crazy? 


A  SORROWFUL   GUEST.  59 

Couldn't  he  take  a  new  fancy,  and  do  some  mis 
chief  or  other  some  day  ? ' '  But  Jack  only  laughed, 
and  went  to  a  book-case  ;  while  I  thought  he  had 
been  very  inconsiderate,  and  yet  I  wished  Mr. 
Winston  to  come  again.  I  hoped  he  would  tell 
us  what  it  was  he  saw. 

u  Here's  Bucknill  and  Tuke,"  said  m}' brother, 
coming  close  to  the  drop-light,  and  turning  over 
the  pages  ;  "  and  now  you'll  always  know  what  I 
mean  when  I  sa}T  '  monomania.'  '  Characterized 
b}'  some  particular  illusion  impressed  on  the  un 
derstanding,  and  giving  rise  to  a  partial  aberra 
tion  of  judgment :  the  individual  affected  is  ren 
dered  incapable  of  thinking  correctly  on  subjects 
connected  by  the  particular  illusion,  while  in 
other  respects  he  betrays  no  palpable  disorder  of 
the  mind.'  That's  quoted  from  Prichard."  And 
he  shut  the  book  again,  and  went  back  to  put  it  in 
its  place  ;  but  my  cousin  asked  for  it,  and  turned 
to  another  page  with  an  air  of  triumph.  "  '  An 
object  ma}*  appear  to  be  present  before  his  eyes 
which  has  no  existence  whatever  there.  ...  If 
unable  to  correct  or  recognize  it  when  an  appeal 
is  made  to  reason,  he  is  insane.'  What  do  you 
think  of  that?"  said  he.  "You  had  better  be 
on  your  guard,  Jack.  I'm  very  wise  just  now. 


GO  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

I  have  been  studying  up  on  insanity  for  a  case  of 
mine  that's  to  be  tried  next  month,  —  at  least  I 
devoutly  hope  it  is." 

"But  tell  me  something  about  Mr.  Winston," 
said  I.  "Do  }'ou  suppose  he  has  no  friends? 
He  seems  to  have  been  wandering  about  the 
world  for  }'ears." 

"  I  remember  his  telling  me,  when  we  were  in 
college,  that  he  had  no  relatives  except  an  old 
aunt,  and  a  cousin,  Henry  Dunster,  whom  we 
spoke  of  to-night,  who  was  killed  in  the  war. 
Whiston  was  very  fond  of  him ;  but  I  always 
thought  Dunster  was  entirely  unwortlry  his  friend 
ship.  Whiston  was  thought  to  be  rich.  His 
father  left  him  a  very  good  property  at  an}'  rate, 
and  he  was  alwa3"S  a  generous  fellow.  Dunster 
made  away  with  a  good  deal,  I  imagine  ;  the}r 
roomed  together,  and  Whiston  paid  most  of  the 
bills.  There  was  something  weak  and  out-of- 
the-way  about  him  then,  I  remember  thinking, 
but  he  was  a  fairly  good  scholar,  and  he  made  a 
fine  soldier.  He  was  promoted  fast ;  but  you 
know  he  resigned  long  before  the  rest  of  us  were 
mustered  out.  Had  a  fever,  didn't  he?  " 

"I  believe  so,"  said  the  judge,  as  his  friends 
always  called  my  cousin.  "The  snow  will  reach 


A  SORROWFUL   GUEST.  61 

in}'  ears  by  this  time.  I  must  go  home.  AYhat 
a  storm  it  is !  No,  I  can't  sta}'  later.  All 
night !  no,  indeed.  I'll  come  round  late  to-mor 
row  evening  if  I  can ;  but  it  will  not  be  likely. 
Now,  if  you  had  only  been  sensible  and  studied 
law,  Jack,  you  wouldn't  have  missed  the  festivi 
ties  :  it's  too  bad.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  wish  I 
could  make  some  excuse,  and  come  here  instead. 
I'm  very  much  excited  about  Whiston."  And 
with  a  Ci  good-night "  to  us,  and  a  fresh  cigar  which 
he  was  sure  the  snow-storm  would  put  out,  he 
went  away,  — my  lucky,  easy-going  cousin  George 
Sheffield,  whose  cigars  never  did  go  out  at  in 
opportune  times,  and  who  never  was  excited 
about  an}'  thing.  It  always  seemed  refreshing  to 
find  in  this  age  of  hurry  and  dash  and  anxiet}'  so 
calm  and  comfortable  and  satisfied  a  soul. 

I  was  in  doubt  whether  we  should  see  any  more 
of  our  sorrowful  guest :  but  he  appeared  late  the 
next  afternoon ;  and,  when  1  came  in  from  my 
walk,  I  saw  a  much-used  portmanteau  being  taken 
upstairs  by  Patrick,  who  told  me  that  there  were 
some  flowers  in  the  parlor  that  Mr.  Whiston  had 
brought.  So  I  went  in  to  see  them,  and  my 
heart  went  out  to  the  giver  at  once  ;  for  had  he 
not  chosen  the  most  exquisite  roses,  —  my  favor- 


G2  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

itc  roses,  —  and  more  like  Ital}'  than  any  thing  I 
had  seen  in  a  long  day?  Patrick  had  crammed 
them  into  exactly  the  wrong  vase  ;  but  I  thanked 
him  for  that,  since  it  gave  me  a  chance  of  hand 
ling  all  the  beautiful  heavy  flowers,  and  making 
them  comfortable  myself,  which  was  certainly  a 
pleasure. 

I  found  Mr.  "\Yhiston  evidently  in  better  spirits 
than  he  had  been  the  night  before,  and  I  was  not 
sorry  when  I  found  we  were  to  be  by  ourselves 
at  dinner.  I  had  not  asked  any  one  myself,  3*011 
ma}'  be  sure.  My  brother  and  I  have  a  fashion 
of  lingering  long  at  the  table,  unless  I  am  going 
out  for  the  evening ;  and  that  night  he  and  his 
friend  lit  their  cigars,  and  went  on  with  their  talk 
of  old  times,  while  I  listened  and  read  the 
Transcript  by  turns.  Presently  there  were  a  few 
minutes  of  silence,  and  then  Jack  said,  — 

"There  was  a  strange  case  brought  into  the 
city  hospital  to-day,  —  a  poor  }'oung  fellow  who 
had  been  literally  almost  frightened  to  death. 
One  of  his  fellow-clerks,  who  boarded  with  him, 
went  into  his  room  the  night  before  in  a  horrible 
mask,  and  wrapped  in  a  sheet,  and  stood  near 
him  in  the  moonlight,  watching  him  until  he 
woke.  He  did  it  for  a  joke,  of  course,  and  is 


A  SORROWFUL   GUEST.  63 

said  to  be  in  agonies  of  penitence ;  but  I'm 
afraid  the  poor  victim  will  lose  his  wits  entirely, 
if  he  doesn't  die,  which  I  think  he  will.  I  don't 
know  what  they  can  do  with  him.  He  had  one 
fit  after  another.  He  may  rally  ;  but  he  looked 
to  me  as  if  he  wouldn't  hold  out  till  morning. 
A  nervous,  slight  fellow,  it  was  a  cruel  thing  to 
do.  Somebody  told  me  he  belonged  somewhere 
up  in  New  Hampshire,  and  that  his  mother  was 
almost  entirely  dependent  upon  him." 

Mr.  Whiston  listened  eagerly.  •»  Poor  fellow  ! 
I  hope  he  will  die,"  said  he  sadly;  and  then, 
hesitating  a  moment :  "  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts, 
Ainslie?  " 

"No,"  said  Jack,  with  the  least  flicker  of  a 
smile  as  I  caught  his  eye;  "  that  is,  I've  never 
seen  one  myself.  But  there  are  very  strange 
things  that  one  can't  explain  to  one's  satisfac 
tion." 

"  I  know  that  the  dead  come  back,"  said  Mr. 
Whiston,  speaking  very  low,  and  not  looking  at 
either  of  us.  "John  Ainslie,"  said  he  suddenly, 
"  I  never  shall  see  }'ou  again.  I'm  not  going  to 
live  long  at  any  rate,  and  you  and  your  sister 
have  given  me  more  of  the  old-time  feeling  than 
I  have  had  for  many  a  day  before.  It  seems  as 


64  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

if  I  were  at  home  with  you.  I  suppose  3*011  will 
say  I  am  a  monomaniac  at  the  very  least ;  but 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  what  it  is  that  has  been 
slowly  killing  me.  You're  a  doctor,  and  you  may 
put  an}T  name  to  it  you  like,  and  call  it  a  disease 
of  the  brain  ;  but  Hemy  Dunster  follows  me." 

Jack  and  I  stole  a  glance  at  each  other,  and  I 
felt  the  strongest  temptation  to  look  over  my 
shoulder.  Jack  reached  over,  and  filled  Mr. 
Winston's  glass  ;  and  the  Transcript  startled  me 
by  sliding  to  the  floor. 

"  I  don't  often  speak  of  it  now  :  people  only 
laugh  at  the  idea,"  said  our  guest,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "But  it  is  most  horribly  real  to  me.  It 
sometimes  seems  the  only  thing  that  is  real." 
And  this  is  the  stoiy  he  told :  — 

"  When  I  was  in  college,  you  know,  Henry 
roomed  with  me  ;  and  at  one  time  we  were  great- 
\y  interested  in  what  we  called  then  superstition 
and  foolishness.  We  thought  ourselves  veiy  wise, 
and  thought  we  could  explain  eveiy  thing.  There 
was  a  craze  among  some  of  the  students  about 
spirit-rappings,  and  that  sort  of  thing ;  and  we 
went  through  with  a  good  deal  of  nonsense,  and 
wasted  a  good  deal  of  time,  in  trying  to  ravel  out 
mysteries,  and  to  explain  things  that  no  mortal 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  65 

man  has  ever  yet  understood.  One  night  very 
late  we  were  talking,  and  grew  much  excited  ; 
and  we  promised  each  other  solemnly  that  the  one 
who  died  first  would  appear  to  the  other,  if  such 
a  thing  were  possible,  and  would  at  least  warn 
him  in  a  way  that  should  be  unmistakable  of  his 
death.  We  were  half  in  fun  and  half  in  earnest, 
God  forgive  us  !  and  we  made  that  awful  promise 
to  each  other.  Then  wre  went  into  the  army,  and 
I  don't  remember  thinking  of  it  once  until  the 
very  night  before  he  was  killed.  We  were  sitting 
together  under  a  tree,  after  a  hard  day's  fight, 
and  Dunster  said  to  me,  laughing,  '  Do  3^011  re 
member  we  promised  each  other,  that  whoever 
died  first  would  appear  to  the  other,  and  follow 
him?'  I  laughed, — you  know  how  reckless  we 
were  in  those  da}*s  when  death  and  dying  were 
so  horribly  familiar,  —  and  I  said  the  same  shell 
might  kill  us  both,  which  would  be  a  great  pity. 
We  were  veiy  merry  and  foolish ;  and  I  should 
have  said  Henry  had  been  drinking,  but  there 
had  been  nothing  to  drink  and  hardly  an}'  thing 
to  eat :  you  remember  we  were  cut  off  from  our 
supplies,  and  the  men  had  very  little  in  their 
haversacks.  Next  dajr  the  fight  was  hotter  than 
ever,  and  we  were  being  driven  back,  when  I  saw 


66  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

him  toss  up  his  hands,  'and  fall.  He  must  have 
been  trodden  to  death  at  any  rate.  When  we 
regained  that  little  field  beyond  the  woods  some 
days  afterward,  they  had  dragged  off  the  wound 
ed,  and  buried  the  dead  in  shallow  trenches.  I 
knew  Dunster  was  dead  ;  and  I  stood  on  picket 
near  a  trench  which  was  just  about  where  he  fell, 
and  I  cried  in  the  dark  like  a  girl.  I  loved 
Dunster.  You  know  he  was  the  only  near  rela 
tive  I  had  in  the  world  whom  I  cared  any  thing 
for,  and  ours  wasn't  a  bonfire  friendship.  He  had 
his  faults,  I  know  he  wasn't  liked  in  the  class. 
He  was  a  brilliant  fellow  ;  but  I  used  to  be  afraid 
he  might  go  to  the  bad.  Do  3-011  remember  that 
night,  Ainslie?  The  men  were  so  tired  that  they 
had  dropped  down  anywhere  in  the  mud  to  sleep, 
and  there  was  some  kind  of  a  bird  in  the  woods 
that  gave  a  lonely,  awful  cry  once  in  a  while." 

"I  remember  it,"  said  my  brother,  moving 
uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  this  time  I  had  to  look 
behind  me,  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"  I  went  to  the  hospital  soon  after  that,"  Mr. 
Winston  said  next.  "  I  was  not  badly  wounded 
at  all,  but  the  exposure  in  that  rain}'  weather 
played  the  mischief  with  me,  and  I  Avas  dis 
charged,  and,  before  you  were  mustered  out,  I 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  67 

went  to  South  America,  where  a  friend  of  mine 
wished  me  to  go  into  business  with  him.  I  did 
capitally  well,  and  I  grew  very  strong.  The  cli 
mate  suited  me,  and  I  used  to  go  on  those  long 
horseback  rides  into  the  interior  among  the  plan 
tations  that  I  told  you  about  last  night.  My  part 
ner  disliked  that  branch  of  the  business  far  more 
than  I  did ;  so  he  left  it  almost  wholly  to  me. 
I  did  not  think  often  about  Henry,  though  I 
mourned  so  much  over  his  death  at  first,  and  I 
never  was  less  nervous  in  nry  life. 

'•  One  evening  I  had  just  returned  to  Rio  after 
an  absence  of  several  weeks,  and  I  went  to  dine 
with  some  friends  of  mine.  It  was  a  terribly  hot 
night,  and  after  dinner  we  went  out  in  the  harbor 
for  a  sail,  as  the  moon  would  be  up  later.  There 
was  not  much  wind,  however ;  and  the  two  boat 
men  took  the  oars,  and  we  struck  out  farther, 
hoping  to  catch  a  breeze  beyond  the  shipping. 
It  was  very  dark,  and  suddenly  there  came  by  a 
large,  heavy  boat  which  nearl}-  ran  us  down. 
Our  men  shouted  angrily,  and  the  other  sailors 
swore  ;  but  there  was  no  accident  after  all.  They 
seemed  to  be  drunk,  and  we  were  all  in  the  shad 
ow  of  a  brig  that  was  lying  at  anchor  ;  but,  Ains- 
lie !  as  that  boat  slid  by  —  I  was  half  lying  in 


68  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

the  stern  of  ours,  and  so  close  that  I  could  have 
touched  it  —  I  saw  Henry  Dunster's  face  as 
plainly  as  I  see  yours  now.  It  turned  me  cold 
for  a  minute,  and  gave«me  an  awful  shock.  I 
told  the  men  to  give  chase  ;  and  they,  thinking  I 
was  angry  at  the  carelessness,  bent  to  their  oars 
with  a  will,  and  overhauled  them.  There  were 
two  men  on  board,  —  one  a  negro,  and  the  other 
an  old  gra\'-haired  sailor,  —  not  in  the  least  like 
Henry.  And  I  said  I  had  been  half  asleep,  and 
dreamed  it  was  his  face.  But  there  was  no  mis 
taking  him  ;  it  was  the  most  vivid  thing  ;  it  was 
the  man  himself  I  saw  for  that  one  horrible  min 
ute.  And  late  the  next  night  I  was  sitting  in  my 
own  sleeping-room.  I  had  reasoned  myself  out 
of  the  thing  as  well  as  I  could,  and  said  I  was 
tired,  and  not  as  well  as  usual,  and  all  that ;  and 
I  had  thought  of  it  as  calmly  as  possible.  I  sat 
with  my  back  toward  the  window ;  but  I  was  fa 
cing  a  mirror,  and  suddenly  I  had  a  strange  feel 
ing,  and  looked  up  to  see  in  the  mirror  Dunster's 
face  at  the  window  looking  in.  It  was  staring 
straight  at  me ;  and  I  met  the  eyes,  and  that  was 
the  last  I  knew  :  I  lost  my  senses.  Only  a  mon- 
key  could  have  climbed  there.  There  was  a  frail 
vine  that  clung  to  the  stone,  and  in  the  morning 
there  was  no  trace  of  any  creature. 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  69 

"And  since  then  he  follows  me.  I  saw  that 
haggard,  wretched  face  of  his  last  night  when  I 
sat  here  at  the  table  ;  and  I  see  him  watching  me 
if  I  look  among  a  crowc\  of  people,  and,  if  I  look 
hack  along  a  street,  he  is  always  coming  towards 
me  ;  but,  when  he  gets  near,  he  vanishes,  and 
sometimes  at  the  theatre  he  will  be  among  the 
actors  all  the  evening.  Nobody  sees  him  but 
me,  but  ever}'  month  I  see  him  oftener,  and  his 
face  grows  out  of  the  darkness  at  night ;  and 
sometimes,  when  I  talk  with  any  one,  the  face  will 
fade  out,  and  Dunster's  comes  in  its  place.  It  is 
killing  me,  Ainslie.  I  have  fought  against  it ;  I 
have  wandered  half  over  the  world  trying  to  get 
rid  of  it,  but  it  is  no  use.  For  a  few  days  in  a 
strange  place,  sometimes  for  weeks,  I  did  not  see 
him  at  first ;  but  I  know  he  is  always  watching 
me  now,  and  I  see  him  ever}'  day." 

I  can  give  you  no  idea  how  thrilling  it  was  to 
listen  to  this  unhappy  man,  who  seemed  so  piti 
fully  cowed  and  broken,  so  helpless  and  hopeless. 
"Whether  there  had  been  any  thing  supernatural, 
or  whether  it  was  merely  the  workings  of  a  dis 
eased  brain,  it  was  horribly  real  to  him ;  and  his 
life  had  been  spoiled. 

"  Winston,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  my  brother, 


70  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

"I'm  not  going  to  believe  in  ghosts  if  I  can  pos 
sibly  help  it.  Could  you  be  perfectly  sure  that 
you  did  not  see  Dunster  himself  at  first?  You 
know  he  was  counted  among  the  missing  only, 
there  is  no  positive  proof  that  he  died,  though  I 
admit  there  was  only  a  chance  he  was  not  killed 
outright.  We  never  saw  him  buried,"  said  Jack, 
with  uns3*mpathetic  persistence.  "  I'm  soriy  for 
you  ;  but  you  mustn't  give  wa}-  to  this  thing.  You 
have  thought  about  it  until  3-011  can't  forget  it  at 
all.  Such  cases  are  not  uncommon  :  it's  simply 
a  hallucination.  I'll  give  3*011  proofs  enough  to 
morrow.  Have  some  more  claret,  won't  you?" 
Jack  spoke  eagerly,  with  the  kindest  tone  ;  and  his 
guest  could  not  help  responding  1)3*  a  faint,  dreary 
little  smile.  --  Do  3*011  like  music  as  much  as 
ever?  Suppose  we  go  over  into  the  parlor,  and 
my  sister  will  play  for  us  ;  won't  you,  Helen?  " 
which  was  asking  a  great  deal  of  me  just  then. 

And  we  apparently  forgot  all  about  Mr.  Dun 
ster  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  And,  when  Jack 
asked  Mr.  Winston  if  he  remembered  a  song  he 
used  to  sing  in  college,  to  my  delight  he  went  at 
once  to  the  piano,  and  sang  it  with  a  very  pleas 
ant  tenor  voice  ;  and  when  he  ended,  and  1113' 
brother  applauded,  he  struck  some  new  chords, 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  71 

and  began  to  sing  a  little  Florentine  street-song, 
which  was  always  a  great  favorite  of  mine.  It 
is  a  sweet,  piteous  little  song ;  and  it  bewitched 
me  then  as  much  as  it  did  the  veiy  first  time  I 
had  heard  some  boys  sing  it,  as  they  went  under 
our  windows  at  night,  when  I  was  first  in  Flor 
ence  }~ears  ago. 

He  said  no  more  about  the  ghost ;  but  later 
that  night,  when  I  happened  to  wake,  I  wondered 
if  the  poor  man  was  keeping  his  anxious  watch, 
and  listening  in  a  strange  house  to  hear  the  hours 
struck  one  by  one.  He  went  away  soon  after 
breakfast ;  and,  though  he  promised  to  come  in 
again  to  say  good-by,  that  was  the  last  we  saw 
of  him,  and  we  did  not  see  his  name  on  the 
steamer  list  either,  so  we  were  much  puzzled, 
and  we  talked  about  him  a  great  deal,  and  told 
George  Sheffield  the  stoiy,  which  he  wished  he 
had  heard  himself. 

"  Of  course  it  is  a  hallucination,"  said  Jack  : 
"  they  are  b\*  no  means  uncommon.  I  can  read 
you  accounts  of  any  number  of  such  cases. 
There  is  a  good  deal  about  them  in  Griesinger's 
book,  —  the  chapter  called  '  Elementary  Disorders 
in  Mental  Disease,'  Helen,  if  3*011  care  to  look 
at  it,  or  an}'  of  those  books  on  insanity.  Didn't 


72  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

3'ou  have  Dr.  Elam's  '  A  Phj'sician's  Problems  ' 
a  while  ago?  He  has  an  essa}*  there  which  is 
very  good." 

"I  was  reading  his  essay  on  'Moral  and 
Criminal  Epidemics,'"  said  I,  "that  was  all. 
It's  a  cheerful  thing  too!" 

"  Isn't  there  such  a  thing  as  these  visions  com 
ing  before  slight  attacks  of  epilepsy?"  said 
George.  And  my  brother  said  yes  ;  but  Mr.  Wins 
ton  had  nothing  of  that  kind,  he  had  taken  pains 
to  find  out.  There  was  no  hope  of  a  cure,  he 
feared  ;  he  wras  not  wise  in  such  cases.  But  the 
trouble  had  gone  too  far,  there  were  bad  symp 
toms,  and  he  confesses  he  has  hurt  himself  with 
opium  during  the  last  year  or  two.  "He  will 
not  live  long  at  an}' rate,"  said  Jack;  "and  I 
think  the  sooner  the  end  comes  the  better.  He 
has  a  predisposition  to  mental  disease,  and  he 
was  always  a  frail,  curious  make-up.  But  I 
don't  know  — '  There  are  more  things  in  heaven 
and  earth,'  George  Sheffield  ;  and  I  wish  you  had 
heard  him  tell  his  stoiy." 

And  we  talked  over  some  strange,  unaccount 
able  things ;  and  each  told  stories  which  could 
neither  be  doubted  nor  explained.  I  had  been 
readier  to  believe  in  such  things  since  I  was 


A  SORROWFUL  GUEST.  73 

warned  myself  before  the  greatest  sorrow  I  had 
ever  known.  I  was  by  the  sea ;  and  one  of  my 
friends  and  I  were  walking  slowly  toward  home 
one  dark  and  windy  evening,  when  suddenly  we 
both  heard  a  terrible  low  cay  of  fear  and  horror 
close  beside  us.  It  was  liardty  a  ciy,  it  was  no 
noise  that  either  of  us  had  ever  heard  before ; 
and  we  stopped  for  an  instant,  because  we  were 
too  frightened  to  move.  And  the  noise  came 
again.  We  were  in  an  open  place,  and  there 
was  nothing  too  be  seen ;  but  we  both  felt  there 
was  something  there,  and  that  the  ciy  had  some 
awful  meaning.  And  it  was  not  man}'  da}'s  be 
fore  I  had  reason  to  remember  that  cry ;  for  the 
trouble  came.  I  do  not  know  what  it  might 
have  been  that  I  heard ;  but  I  knew  it  had  the 
saddest  meaning. 

Two  or  three  weeks  after  we  saw  Mr.  Winston, 
my  brother  came  in  one  afternoon ;  and  I  saw  he 
could  hardly  wait  for  some  friends  to  go  away, 
who  were  paying  me  a  call. 

^  I  have  found  poor  Winston,"  said  he,  when 
I  joined  him  in  the  library  at  last :  "he  is  at  the 
Carne}"  Hospital.  It  seems  he  was  ill  for  a  few 
days  at  his  hotel,  and  the  servant,  who  was  very 
kind  to  him,  advised  him  to  go  there.  He  insists 


74  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

that  he  is  veiy  comfortable,  and  that  he  has 
money  enough.  I  wished  to  bring  him  over  here 
at  first ;  but  I  saw  that  it  was  no  use,  and  I  asked 
him  why  he  didn't  let  me  know,  but  he  is  com 
pletely  wrecked  ;  I  doubt  if  he  lives  more  than  a 
day  or  two,  he  was  wandering  half  the  time  I 
was  there.  He  said  he  should  be  very  glad  if 
you  would  come  to  see  him,  and  I  told  him  I  was 
sure  you  would." 

I  went  to  see  him  with  m\-  brother  the  next 
day,  and  I  saw  that  Jack  was  shocked  at  the 
change  that  had  come  already.  There  was  that 
peculiar,  worried,  anxious  look  in  his  face,  that 
one  only  sees  in  people  who  are  very  near  death, 
and  his  fingers  were  picking  at  the  blanket.  I 
do  not  believe  he  knew  me  ;  but  he  smiled,  — he 
had  a  most  beautiful  smile,  —  and  I  gave  him 
some  grapes,  and  wished  I  could  make  him  a 
little  more  comfortable.  The  sister  came  just 
afterward  on  her  round,  and  gave  him  his  medi 
cine,  and  raised  him  with  a  strong  arm,  while  she 
turned  his  pillow  in  a  business-like  way,  and  I 
thought  what  a  loneh'  place  it  was  to  be  ill  and 
die  in  ;  and  I  was  more  glad  than  ever  that  Jack 
and  I  had  a  home,  and  were  always  to  be  to 
gether.  I  left  Jack  to  stay  the  night,  and,  as  I 


A  SORROWFUL   GUEST.  75 

came  awa}',  I  had  more  and  more  compassion  for 
the  man  who  was  dying ;  yet  I  was  glad  to  think 
so  sad  a  life  was  almost  over  with.  His  da}'s  had 
been  all  winter  da}"s  in  this  world,  it  seemed  to 
me,  and  I  hoped  some  wonderful,  blessed  spring 
was  waiting  for  him  in  the  next. 

AVhen  I  went  over  in  the  morning,  it  was  cheer 
less  enough.  The  rain  was  falling  fast  and  the 
snow  melting  in  the  streets.  My  brother  was 
watching  for  me,  and  came  out  at  once.  "  Poor 
AVhiston  is  dead,"  said  he,  as  he  shut  the  car 
riage-door.  "  He  wished  me  to  thank  you  for  your 
kindness  to  him,"  and  I  saw  the  tears  in  Jack's 
e3'es.  "There's  another  star  for  the  catalogue, 
—  how  small  the  class  is  growing  !  Poor  fellow  ! 
I  didn't  know  he  had  gone,  I  thought  he  was 
asleep,  for  we  were  talking  together  only  a  few 
minutes  before.  He  was  not  at  all  bewildered, 
as  you  saw  him  yesterday." 

I  heard  this  case  talked  over  more  than  once 
by  my  brother,  and  one  or  two  professional  friends 
of  his  who  came  often  to  the  house.  Nobody  was 
ready  to  believe  that  Mr.  AVhiston  had  seen  an 
apparition ;  but  the  truth  always  remained  that 
the  man's  nerves  were  so  shocked  by  what  he 
believed  to  be  the  appearance  of  a  ghost,  that  he 


76  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

had  become  the  prey  of  a  monomania,  and  had 
by  little  and  little  grown  incapable  of  distinguish 
ing  between  real  things  and  the  creations  and 
projections  of  his  own  unsteady  brain.  11  s'ccou- 
tait  vivre,  as  the  French  phrase  has  it ;  and,  hav 
ing  nothing  to  live  for  but  this,  it  was  well  that 
life  was  over  for  him.  I  suppose  the  acute  dis 
ease  of  which  he  died  met  with  little  resistance, 
for  he  looked  so  ill  when  we  first  saw  him  ;  but  it 
would  have  been  sadder  if  he  had  lingered  a  few 
more  years,  so  miserable  as  he  was,  —  hard  I}'  fit 
either  for  the  inside  of  an  asylum  or  the  outside, 
—  to  die  at  last  without  money  or  friends  to  give 
him  the  last  of  this  world's  comforts,  perhaps 
without  mind  enough  left  to  miss  them. 

Strangely  enough,  some  months  after  this,  when 
it  was  spring,  my  brother  found  Dunster  at  the 
Marine  Hospital  in  Chelsea,  where  he  had  gone 
with  another  surgeon  to  see  a  curious  operation 
in  which  he  felt  a  great  interest.  He  was  walk 
ing  through  the  accident  ward  when  somebody 
called  him  from  one  of  the  cots,  —  a  wretched- 
looking  vagabond,  whom  at  first  he  did  not  recog 
nize.  But  it  was  Dunster,  and  he  tried  to  put  on 
something  of  his  old  manner,  which  made  him 
seem  like  a  wretched  cop}'  of  his  former  self. 


A  SORROWFUL   GUEST.  77 

Jack  made  him  give  an  account  of  himself.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  been  thrown  among  the  dead 
in  that  battle  when  he  was  supposed  to  have  been 
killed ;  but  he  had  recovered  his  senses,  and 
crawled  from  the  place  where  he  had  fallen  far 
ther  into  the  enemy's  lines,  and  he  had  been  sent 
to  the  rear.  He  had  nearly  died  from  the  effects 
of  his  wounds,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  had 
been  veiy  intemperate.  lie  had  drifted  to  Xew 
Orleans,  and  lead  a  most  wretched  life  there  ;  and 
at  times  he  had  gone  to  sea.  My  brother  asked 
him  if  he  was  ever  in  Rio ;  and  at  first  he  denied 
it,  and  afterward  confessed  that  he  was  there 
once,  and  had  seen  Winston  in  a  boat,  and  had 
dropped  over  the  side  in  the  dark  to  evade  him, 
but  when  Jack  questioned  him  about  being  at  the 
window,  he  denied  it  utterly.  He  said  his  ship 
sailed  that  day.  It  might  have  been  that  he 
meant  to  commit  a  robbeiy,  or  that  he  really 
told  the  truth,  and  that  it  was  the  first  of  poor 
AVhiston's  illusions.  Of  course  it  was  possible 
that  Dunster  might  have  swung  himself  down 
from  the  fiat  roof  by  a  rope,  and  the}-  might  have 
really  met  at  other  times,  it  was  not  unlikely. 
But  one  can  hardly  conceive  of  Mr.  Winston's 
perfect  certaint}',  in  such  a  case,  that  the  glimpse 


78  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

lie  had  of  bis  cousin's  face  was  a  supernatural 
vision. 

My  brother  said,  "I  did  not  tell  him  what 
wreck  and  ruin  he  had  made  unco  use  ion  si}'  of 
Whiston's  life,  —  at  least  the  part  he  had  played  in 
it ;  it  would  do  no  good,  and  indeed  he  is  hardly 
sane,  I  think.  It  would  be  curious  if  they  had 
both  inherited  from  their  common  ancestry  the 
mental  weakness  which  shows  itself  so  differently 
in  the  two  lives, — Winston's,  so  cowardly  and 
shrinking  and  weak  ;  and  Dunstcr's,  so  horribly 
low  and  brutal.  There  is  not  much  the  matter 
with  him,  he  had  a  fall  on  board  ship.  The 
nurse  told  me  he  was  very  troublesome,  and  had 
fairly  insulted  the  chaplain,  who  had  said  a  kind 
word  to  him.  It  is  a  pity  that  shot  had  not  killed 
him ;  and  I  suppose  most  of  the  class  who  ever 
think  of  him  will  say  he  was  a  hero,  and  died  on 
the  field  of  honor." 

And  my  brother  and  I  talked  gravely  about 
the  two  men.  God  help  us  !  what  sin  and  crime 
may  be  charged  to  an}'  of  us  who  take  the  wrong 
way  in  life  !  The  possibilities  of  wickedness  and 
goodness  in  us  are  both  unlimited.  I  said,  how 
many  lives  must  be  like  these  which  seemed  such 
wretched  failures  and  imperfections  !  One  cannot 


A  SORROWFUL   GUEST.  79 

help  haying  a  great  pity  for  such  men,  in  whom 
common  courage,  and  the  power  of  resistance, 
and  the  ordinary  amount  of  will  seem  to  have 
been  wanting.  Warped  and  incapable,  or  brutal 
and  shameful,  one  cannot  pity  them  enough.  It 
is  like  the  gnarled  and  worthless  fruit  that  grows 
among  the  fair  and  well-rounded, — the  useless 
growth  that  is  despised  and  thrown  away  scorn 
fully. 

But  God  must  always  know  what  blighted  and 
hindered  an}'  life  or  growth  of  His ;  and  let  us 
believe  that  He  sometimes  saves  and  pities  what 
we  have  scorned  and  blamed. 


A   LATE    SUPPER. 


JHE  stoiy  begins  one  afternoon  in  June 
just  after  dinner.  Miss  Catherine  Spring- 
was  the  heroine  ;  and  she  lived  alone  in 
her  house,  which  stood  on  the  long  village  street 
in  Brookton, — up  in  the  countiy  city  people 
would  say,  —  a  town  certainly  not  famous,  but 
pleasant  enough  because  it  was  on  the  outer  edge 
of  the  mountain  region,  near  some  great  hills. 
One  never  hears  much  about  Brookton  when  one 
is  away  from  it,  but,  for  all  that,  life  is  as  impor 
tant  and  exciting  there  as  it  is  anywhere  ;  and  it 
is  like  every  other  town,  a  miniature  world,  with 
its  great  people  and  small  people,  bad  people  and 
good  people,  its  jealousy  and  rivalry,  kindness 
and  patient  heroism. 

Miss  Spring  had  finished  her  dinner  that  day, 
and  had  washed  the  few  dishes,  and  put  them 
away.  She  never  could  get  used  to  there  being 
so  few,  because  she  had  been  one  of  a  large  fain- 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  81 

ilv.  She  had  put  on  the  gray  alpaca"  dress  which 
she  wore  afternoons  at  home,  and  had  taken  her 
sewing,  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  front  windows 
in  the  sitting-room,  which  was  shaded  "by  a  green 
old  lilac-bush.  But  she  did  not  sew  as  if  she 
were  much  interested  in  the  work,  or  were  in  any 
hurry  ;  and  presently  she  laid  it  down  altogether, 
and  tapped  on  the  window-sill  with  her  thimble, 
looking  as  if  she  were  lost  in  not  very  pleasant 
thought.  She  was  a  very  good  woman,  and  a 
very  pleasant  woman ;  a  good  neighbor  all  the 
people  would  tell  3^011 ;  and  they  would  add  also, 
very  comfortably  left.  But  of  late  she  had  been 
somewhat  troubled  ;  to  tell  the  truth,  her  money 
affairs  had  gone  wrong,  and  just  now  she  did  not 
exactly  know  what  to  do.  She  felt  more  solitary 
than  she  had  for  a  long  time  before.  Her  father, 
the  last  of  the  famil}-  except  herself,  had  been 
dead  for  man}'  years  ;  and  she  had  been  living 
alone,  growing  more  and  more  contented  in  the 
comfortable,  prim,  white  house,  after  the  first 
sharp  grief  of  her  loneliness  had  worn  awa}*  into 
a  more  resigned  and  familiar  sorrow.  It  is,  after 
all,  a  great  satisfaction  to  do  as  one  pleases. 

Now,  as  I  have  said,  she  had  lost  part  of  her 
already  small  income,  and  she  did  not  know  what 


82  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW 

to  do.  The  first  loss  could  be  borne  ;  but  the 
second  seemed  to  put  housekeeping  out  of  the 
question,  and  this  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  think 
of.  She  knew  no  other  wa}-  of  living,  beside  hav 
ing  her  own  house  and  her  own  fashion  of  doing 
things.  If  it  had  been  possible,  she  would  have 
liked  to  take  some  boarders  ;  but  summer  boarders 
had  not  yet  found  out  Brookton.  Mr.  Elden, 
the  kind  old  Iaw3~er  who  was  her  chief  adviser, 
had  told  her  to  put  an  advertisement  in  one  of 
the  Boston  papers,  and  she  had  done  so ;  but  it 
never  had  been  answered,  which  was  not  only  a 
disappointment  but  a  mortification  as  well.  Her 
money  was  not  actually  lost :  it  was  the  failure  of 
a  certain  railwaj*  to  pa}r  its  dividend,  that  was 
making  her  so  much  trouble. 

Miss  Spring  tapped  her  thimble  still  foster  on 
the  window-sill,  and  thought  busily.  "  I'm  going 
to  think  it  out,  and  settle  it  this  afternoon,"  said 
she  to  herself.  "  I  must  settle  it  somehow,  I 
will  not  live  on  here  any  longer  as  if  I  could 
afford  it."  There  was  a  niece  of  hers  who  lived 
in  Lowell,  who  was  married  and  not  at  all  strong. 
There  were  three  children,  with  nobody  in  par 
ticular  to  look  after  them.  Miss  Catherine  was 
sure  this  niece  would  like  nothing  better  than  to 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  83 

have  her  come  to  stay  with  her.  She  thought 
with  satisfaction  how  well  she  could  manage 
there,  and  how  well  her  housekeeping  capabilities 
would  come  into  play.  It  had  grieved  her  in  her 
last  visit  to  see  the  house  half  cared  for,  and  she 
remembered  the  wistful  way  Mary  had  said, 
tl  How  I  wish  I  could  have  you  here  all  the  time, 
Aunt  Catherine!"  and  at  once  Aunt  Catherine 
went  on  to  build  a  little  castle  in  the  air,  until 
she  had  a  chilly  consciousness  that  her  own  house 
was  to  be  shut  up.  She  compared  the  attractions 
of  Lowell  and  Brookton  most  disdainfully :  the 
dread  came  over  her  that  most  elderly  people  feel 
at  leaving  their  familiar  homes  and  the  surround 
ings  to  which  the}*  have  grown  used.  But  sho 
bravely  faced  all  this,  and  resolved  to  write  Mary 
that  evening,  so  the  letter  could  go  b}'  the  morn 
ing's  mail.  If  Mary  liked  the  plan,  which  Miss 
Catherine  never  for  an  instant  doubted,  she  would 
sta}'  through  the  earl}'  fall  at  an}'  rate,  and  then 
see  what  was  best  to  be  done. 

She  took  up  her  sewing  again,  and  looked 
critically  at  it  through  her  spectacles,  and  then 
went  on  with  her  stitching,  feeling  lighter-hearted 
now  that  the  question  was  decided.  The  tall 
clock  struck  three  slowlv  ;  and  she  said  to  herself 


84  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

how  fast  the  last  hour  had  gone.  There  was  a 
little  breeze  outside  which  came  rustling  through 
the  lilac-leaves.  The  wide  street  was  left  to 
itself,  nobody  had  driven  by  since  she  had  sat  at 
the  window.  She  heard  some  children  laughing 
and  calling  to  each  other  where  they  were  at  play 
in  a  yard  not  far  away,  and  smiled  in  sj'mpathy ; 
for  her  heart  had  never  grown  old.  The  smell  of 
the  roses  by  the  gate  came  blowing  in  sweet  and 
fresh,  and  she  could  see  the  great  red  peonies  in 
generous  bloom  on  the  borders  each  side  the  front 
walk.  And,  when  she  looked  round  the  room,  it 
seemed  veiy  pleasant  to  her,  the  clock  ticked 
steadily ;  and  the  old-fashioned  chairs,  and  the 
narrow  high  mirror  with  the  gilt  eagle  at  the  top, 
the  stiff  faded  portraits  of  her  father  and  mother 
in  their  young  da^vs,  the  wide  old  brass-nailed 
sofa  with  its  dim  worsted-worked  cushion  at 
either  end, — how  comfortable  it  all  was  !  and  a 
great  thrill  of  fondness  for  the  room  and  the 
house  came  over  our  friend.  "I  didn't  know  I 
cared  so  much  about  the  old  place,"  said  she. 
"'There's  no  place  like  home.' — I  believe  I 
never  knew  that  meant  so  much  before  ;  "  and  she 
laid  down  her  sewing  again,  and  fell  into  a  rev 
erie. 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  85 

In  a  little  while  she  heard  the  click  of  the  gate- 
latch  ;  and,  with  the  start  and  curiosity  a  village 
woman  instinctively  feels  at  the  knowledge  of 
somebody's  coming  in  at  the  front-door,  she  hur 
ried  to  the  other  front-window  to  take  a  look  at 
her  visitor  through  the  blinds.  It  was  only  a 
child,  and  Miss  Catherine  did  not  wait  for  her  to 
rap  with  the  high  and  heavy  knocker,  but  was 
standing  in  the  open  doorway  when  the  little  girl 
reached  the  steps. 

"  Come  in,  dear !  "  said  Miss  Catherine  kindly, 
"  did  you  come  of  an  errand?  " 

"I  wanted  to  ask  }'ou  something,"  said  the 
child,  following  her  into  the  sitting-room,  and 
taking  the  chair  next  the  door  with  a  shy  smile 
that  had  something  appealing  about  it.  "I  came 
to  ask  you  if  you  want  a  girl  this  summer." 

44  Why,  no,  I  never  keep  help,"  said  Miss 
Spring.  "  There  is  a  woman  who  comes  Mon 
days  and  Tuesdays,  and  other  days  when  I  need 
her.  Who  is  it  that  wants  to  come?  " 

"It's  only  me,"  said  the  child.  "I'm  small 
of  my  age  ;  but  I'm  past  ten,  and  I  can  work  real 
smart  about  house."  A  great  cloud  of  disap 
pointment  came  over  her  face. 

k'AVhosc  child  arc  }'ou?" 


86  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

"  I'm  Katy  Dunning,  and  I  live  with  my  aunt 
down  by  Sandy-river  Bridge.  Her  girl  is  big 
enough  to  help  round  now,  and  she  said  I 
must  find  a  place.  She  would  keep  me  if  she 
could,"  said  the  little  girl  in  a  grown-up,  old- 
fashioned  wa3* ;  "but  times  are  going  to  be  dread 
ful  hard,  they  say,  and  it  takes  a  good  deal  to 
keep  so  many." 

"What  made  you  come  here?"  asked  Miss 
Catherine,  whose  heart  went  out  toward  this 
hard-worked,  womanly  little  thing.  It  seemed  so 
pitiful  that  so  young  a  child,  who  ought  to  be  still 
at  play,  should  already  know  about  hard  times, 
and  have  begun  to  fight  the  battle  of  life.  A 
year  ago  she  had  thought  of  taking  just  such  a 
girl  to  save  steps,  and  for  the  sake  of  having 
somebody  in  the  house  ;  but  it  never  could  be 
more  out  of  the  question  than  now.  "  What 
made  3*011  come  to  me?  " 

"Mr.  Rand,  at  the  post-office,  told  aunt  that 
perhaps  3*011  might  want  me :  he  couldn't  think 
of  anybody  else." 

She  was  such  a  neat-looking,  well-mended  child, 
and  looked  Miss  Catherine  in  the  face  so  honest 
ly  !  She  might  cry  a  little  after  she  was  outside 
the  gate,  but  not  now. 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  87 


"I'm  really  sony,"  sa^  ^iss  Spring;  "but 
you  see,  I'm  thinking  about  shutting  my  house  up 
this  summer."  She  would  not  allow  to  herself 
that  it  was  for  an}'  longer.  "  But  you  keep  up  a 
good  heart.  I  know  a  good  man}'  folks,  and 
perhaps  I  can  hear  of  a  place  for  you.  I  suppose 
you  could  mind  a  baby,  couldn't  you?  No:  you 
sit  still  a  minute  !  "  as  the  child  thanked  her,  and 
rose  to  go  away  ;  and  she  went  out  to  her  din 
ing-room  closet  to  a  deep  jar,  and  took  out  two 
of  her  best  pound-cakes,  which  she  made  so  sel 
dom  now,  and  saved  with  great  care.  She  put 
these  on  a  pretty  pink-and-white  china  plate,  and 
filled  a  mug  with  milk.  "Here,"  said  she,  as 
she  came  back,  "  I  want  you  to  eat  these  cakes. 
You  have  walked  a  long  ways,  and  it'll  do  you 
good.  Sit  right  up  to  the  table,  and  I'll  spread 
a  newspaper  over  the  cloth." 

Katy  looked  at  her  with  surprise  and  gratitude. 
"  I'm  very  much  obliged,"  said  she  ;  and  her  first 
bite  of  the  cake  seemed  the  most  delicious  thing 
she  had  ever  tasted. 

Yes,  I  suppose  bread  and  butter  would  have 
been  quite  as  good  for  her,  and  much  less  extrav 
agant  on  Miss  Catherine's  part  ;  but  of  all  the 
people  who  had  praised  her  pound-cakes,  nobody 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

had  so  delighted  in  their  goodness  as  this  hungry 
little  girl,  who  had  hardly  ever  eaten  any  thing 
but  bread  all  her  days,  and  not  very  good  bread 
at  that. 

';  Don't  hurry,"  said  Miss  Spring  kindly, 
"you're  a  good  girl,  and  I  wish  I  could  take 
you,  —  I  declare  I  do."  And,  with  a  little  sigh, 
she  sat  down  by  the  window  again,  and  took  up 
the  much-neglected  sewing,  looking  up  now  and 
then  at  her  happy  guest.  When  she  saw  the 
mug  was  empty,  and  that  Katy  looked  at  it  wist 
fully  as  she  put  it  down,  she  took  it  without  a 
word,  and  went  to  the  shelf  in  the  cellar-way 
where  the  cream-pitcher  stood,  and  poured  out 
every  drop  that  was  in  it,  afterward  filling  the 
mug  to  the  brim  with  milk,  for  her  little  pitcher 
did  not  hold  much.  "I'll  get  along  one  night 
without  cream  in  my  tea,"  said  she  to  herself. 
"  That  wras  only  skim-milk  she  had  first,  and  she 
looks  hungry." 

"It's  real  pleasant  here,"  said  Katy,  "you're 
so  good  !  Aunt  said  I  could  tell  3*011,  if  3-011 
wanted  to  take  me,  that  I  don't  tear  my  clothes, 
and  I'm  careful  about  the  dishes.  She  thought  I 
wouldn't  be  a  bother.  Would  you  tell  the  other 
people?  I  should  be  real  glad  to  get  a  place." 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  89 

"I'll  tell  'em  you're  a  good  girl,"  said  Miss 
Catherine  ;  "  and  I'll  get  you  a  good  home  if  I 
can."  For  she  thought  of  her  niece  in  Lowell, 
and  how  much  trouble  there  was  when  she  was 
there  about  getting  a  careful  .young  girl  to  take 
care  of  the  smallest  child.  Then  it  occurred  to 
her  that  Kat}'  was  very  small  herself,  and  did  not 
look  very  strong,  and  Mary  might  not  hear  to  it ; 
so,  after  Katy  had  gone,  she  began  to  be  sorrow 
ful  again,  and  to  wish  she  had  promised  less,  and 
need  not  disappoint  the  little  thing. 

Another  hour  had  gone,  and  it  was  four  o'clock 
now,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  heard  a  carriage 
stop  at  the  gate.  She  heard  several  voices,  and 
was  discouraged  for  a  minute.  Three  people 
were  coming  in ;  and  she  was  so  glad  when  she 
saw  it  was  a  nephew  and  his  wife  from  a  town  a 
dozen  miles  away,  and  a  friend  with  them  whom 
she  had  often  seen  at  their  house.  The}'  came  in 
with  good-natured  chatter  and  much  laughing. 
They  had  started  out  for  a  drive  early  after  din 
ner,  and  had  found  the  weather  so  pleasant  that 
they  had  kept  on  to  Brookton. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  folks  will  think."  said 
the}':    "we  meant  to  be  back  right  away." 
"  Well,"  said  the  niece,  "  I'm  so  glad  we  found 


90  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

you  at  home  ;  and  how  well  3*011  do  look,  Aunt 
Catherine  !  I  declare,  you're  smarter  than  any 
of  us." 

"  I  guess  she  is,"  said  her  nephew,  who  was  a 
great  favorite.  "  I  tell  you  she's  the  salt  of  the 
earth."  And  he  gave  her  a  most  affectionate 
and  resounding  great  kiss,  and  then  they  were 
all  merrier  than  ever. 

"What  are  you  sitting  down  for,  without  laying 
off  your  bonnets?"  asked  the  hostess.  "You 
must  stay  and  get  supper  before  3-011  ride  home. 
I'll  have  it  early,  and  there's  a  moon.  You  take 
the  horse  right  round  into  the  yard,  Joseph : 
there's  some  more  of  that  old  hay  in  the  barn ; 
3*011  know  where  to  find  it."  And,  after  some 
persuasion,  the  visitors  3'ielded,  and  settled  them 
selves  quietly  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 
They  had  said,  as  they  came  over,  that  they  were 
sure  Aunt  Catherine  would  ask  them  to  sta\-  until 
evening,  and  she  always  had  such  good  suppers. 
Miss  Stanby  had  never  been  at  the  house  before, 
and  only  once  as  far  as  Brookton  ;  and  she  seemed 
very  pleased.  She  took  care  of  her  step-mother, 
who  was  very  old,  and  a  great  deal  crosser  than 
there  was  an}'  need  of  being.  This  little  excur 
sion  would  do  her  a  world  of  good  ;  and  luckily 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  91 

her  married  sister  happened  to  be  at  home  for  a 
day  or  two's  visit,  so  she  did  not  feel  anxious 
about  being  awa}*.  She  was  a  sharp-faced,  har- 
assed-looking  little  woman,  who  might  have  been 
pretty  if  she  had  been  richer  and  less  worried 
and  disappointed.  She  was  a  pleasant  and  pa 
tient  soul,  and  this  drive  and  visit  were  more  to 
her  than  a  journey  to  Boston  would  be  to  her 
companions.  The}'  were  well-to-do  village  peo 
ple,  comfortable  and  happy  and  unenvious  as  it 
is  possible  for  village  people,  or  any  other  people, 
to  be. 

Miss  Spring  was  a  little  distracted  and  a  bit 
formal  for  a  few  minutes,  while  she  was  thinking 
what  she  could  get  for  tea  ;  but  that  being  settled, 
she  gave  her  whole  mind  to  enjoying  the  guests. 
She  regretted  the  absence  of  the  two  pound-cakes 
Katy  Dunning  had  eaten,  but  it  was  only  for  an 
instant.  She  could  make  out  with  new  ginger 
bread,  and  no  matter  if  she  couldn't !  It  was  all 
very  pleasant  and  sociable  :  and  they  talked  to 
gether  for  a  while  busily,  telling  the  news  and 
asking  and  answering  questions  ;  and,  b}'  and  by, 
Joseph  took  his  hat,  saying  that  he  must  go  down 
to  the  post-office  to  see  Mr.  Hand,  the  storekeeper. 
Soon  after  this  it  was  time  to  get  supper.  Just 


92  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

as  Miss  Spring  was  going  out,  her  niece  said,  "  I 
had  a  letter  from  Lowell  yesterday,  from  Mary." 

"How  is  she  now?"  Miss  Spring  meant  to 
talk  over  her  plans  a  little  with  Joseph  after  sup 
per,  but  was  silent  enough  about  them  now. 

"  Her  husband's  oldest  sister  is  coming  to  stay 
all  summer  with  them.  She  is  a  widow,  and  has 
been  living  out  West.  It'll  be  a  great  help  to 
Mar}',  and  John  sets  every  thing  by  this  sister. 
She  is  a  good  deal  older  than  he,  and  brought 
him  up." 

"•  It  is  a  good  thing,"  said  Miss  Catherine 
emphatically,  and  with  perfect  composure.  tb  I 
have  been  thinking  about  Mar}'  lately.  I  pitied 
her  so  when  I  was  there.  I  have  had  half  a 
mind  to  go  and  stay  with  her  a  while  myself." 

u  You  might  have  got  sick  going  to  Lowell  in 
hot  weather.  Sha'n't  I  come  out  and  help  you, 
Aunt  Catherine?  "  who  said,  u  No  indeed  ;  "  and 
went  out  to  the  kitchen,  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 
"  Oh,  wrhat  am  I  going  to  do?  "  said  she  ;  for  she 
never  had  felt  so  helpless  and  hopeless  in  her  life. 

The  old  clock  gave  its  quick  little  cluck,  by 
way  of  reminder  that  in  five  minutes  it  would  be 
five  o'clock.  She  had  promised  to  have  tea  early  ; 
so  she  opened  a  drawer  to  take  out  a  big  calico 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  93 

apron,  and  went  to  work.  Her  eves  were  full  of 
tears.  Poor  woman  !  she  felt  as  if  she  had  come 
face  to  face  with  a  great  wall,  but  she  bravely 
went  to  work  to  make  the  cream-tartar  biscuit. 
Somehow  she  couldn't  remember  how  much  to 
take  of  any  thing.  She  was  quite  confused  when 
she  tried  to  remember  the  familiar  rule.  It  was 
silly!  —  she  had  made  them  hundreds  of  times, 
and  was  celebrated  for  her  skill.  Cream-tartar 
biscuit,  and  some  cold  bread,  and  some  preserved 
plums  ;  or  was  it  citron-melon  she  meant  to  have  ? 
—  and  some  of  that  cold  meat  she  had  for  dinner, 
for  a  relish,  with  a  bit  of  cheese. 

She  would  have  felt  much  more  miserable  if  she 
had  not  had  to  hurry  ;  and  after  a  few  minutes, 
when  the  first  shock  of  her  bad  news  had  been 
dulled  a  little,  she  was  herself  again ;  and  tea 
was  nearly  read}',  the  biscuits  baking  in  the  oven, 
and  some  molasses  gingerbread  beside,  when  she 
happened  to  remember  that  there  was  not  a  drop 
of  cream  in  the  cream-pitcher,  she  had  given  it 
fill  to  poor  little  Kat}*.  Joseph  was  very  particu 
lar  about  having  cream  in  his  tea ;  so  she  called 
her  niece  Martha  to  the  kitchen,  and  asked  her  to 
watch  the  oven  while  she  went  down  the  road  to  a 
neighbor's.  She  did  not  stop  even  to  take  her 


94  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

sun-bonnet :  it  was  not  a  great  way,  and  shady 
under  the  elms  ;  so  away  she  went  with  the  pitch 
er.  Mrs.  Hilton,  the  neighbor,  was  a  generous 
soul,  and  when  she  heard  of  the  unexpected  com 
pany,  with  ready  sympathy  and  interest  she  said  ; 
"Now,  what  did  3-011  bring  such  a  mite  of  a  pitch 
er  for?  Do  take  this  one  of  mine.  I'd  just  as 
soon  3'ou'd  have  the  cream  as  not.  I  don't  cal 
culate  to  make  any  butter  this  week,  and  it'll  be 
well  to  have  it  to  eat  with  3~our  preserves.  It's 
nice  and  sweet  as  ever  3-011  saAv." 

"I'm  sure  you  are  kind,"  said  Miss  Spring; 
and  with  a  word  or  two  more  she  went  hunying 
home.  As  I  have  said,  it  wras  not  far ;  but  the 
railroad  came  between,  and  our  friend  had  to 
cross  the  track.  It  seemed  very  provoking  that 
a  long  train  should  be  standing  across  the  road. 
It  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something ;  an  acci 
dent  might  have  happened,  for  the  station  was  a 
little  distance  back. 

Miss  Catherine  waited  in  great  anxiet3~ ;  she 
could  not  afford  to  waste  a  minute.  She  would 
have  to  cross  an  impossible  culvert  in  going 
around  the  train  either  wa3'.  She  saw  some  pas 
sengers  or  brakcmen  walking  about  on  the  other 
side,  and  with  great  heroism  mounted  the  high 


A   LATE  SUPPER.  95 

step  of  the  platform  with  the  full  intention  of 
going  down  the  other  side,  when,  to  her  horror, 
the  train  suddenly  moved.  She  screamed,  "  Stop  ! 
stop!"  but  nobody  saw  her,  and  nobocl}*  heard 
her ;  and  off  she  went,  cream-pitcher  and  all, 
without  a  bit  of  a  bonnet.  It  was  simply  awful. 

The  car  behind  her  was  the  smoking-car,  and 
the  one  on  which  she  stood  happened  to  be  the 
Pullman.  She  was  dizzy,  and  did  not  dare  to 
stay  where  she  was ;  so  she  opened  the  door  and 
went  in.  There  was  a  young  lacty  standing  in  the 
passage-wa\',  getting  a  drink  of  water  for  some 
one  in  a  dainty  little  tumbler  ;  and  she  looked 
over  her  shoulder,  thinking  Miss  Spring  was  the 
conductor,  to  whom  she  wished  to  speak  ;  and 
.she  smiled,  for  who  could  help  it? 

"I'm  carried  off,"  said  poor  Aunt  Catherine 
hysterically.  "  I  had  company  come  to  tea  un 
expectedly,  and  I  was  all  out  of  cream,  and  I 
went  out  to  Mrs.  Hilton's,  and  I  was  in  a  great 
hurry  to  get  back,  and  there  seemed  no  sign  in 
the  world  of  the  cars  starting.  I  wish  we  never 
had  sold  our  land  for  the  track  !  Oh  !  what  shall 
I  do?  I'm  a  mile  from  home  already  ;  they'll  be 
frightened  to  death,  and  I  wanted  to  have  supper 


96  OLD   FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

earl}'  for  them,  so  the}'  could  start  for  home  ;  it's 
a  long  ride.  And  the  biscuit  ought  to  be  eaten 
hot.  Dear  me  !  they'll  be  so  worried  !  " 

"I'm  very  sorry,  indeed,"  said  the  young 
lady,  who  was  quivering  with  laughter  in  spite  of 
her  heartfelt  sympathy  for  such  a  calamity  as 
this.  "  I  suppose  you  will  have  to  go  on  to  the 
next  station  ;  is  it  very  far?  " 

"Half  an  hour,"  said  Miss  Spring  despair 
ingly;  "and  the  down  train  doesn't  get  into 
Brookton  until  seven  ;  and  I  haven't  a  cent  of 
money  with  me,  either.  I  shall  be  crazy !  I 
don't  see  why  I  didn't  get  off;  but  it  took  all  my 
wits  away  the  minute  I  found  I  was  going." 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  didn't  try  to  get  off,"  said 
the  girl  gravely  :  "  you  might  have  been  terribly 
hurt.  Won't  you  come  into  the  compartment  just 
here  with  my  aunt  and  me?  She  is  an  invalid, 
and  we  are  all  by  ourselves  ;  you  need  not  see 
any  one  else.  Let  me  take  your  pitcher."  And 
Miss  Spring,  glad  to  find  so  kind  a  friend  in  such 
an  emergency,  followed  her. 

There  were  two  sofas  running  the  length  of  the 
compartment,  and  on  one  of  these  was  lying  a 
most  kind  and  refined-looking  woman,  with  gray 
hair  and  the  sweetest  eyes.  Poor  Aunt  Gather- 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  97 

hie  somehow  felt  comforted  at  once  ;  and  when 
this  new  friend  looked  up  wondering!}',  and  her 
niece  tried  to  keep  from  even  smiling  while  she 
told  the  story  discreetly,  she  began  to  laugh  at 
herself  heartily. 

'•  I  know  you  want  to  laugh,  dear,"  said  she. 
"It's  ridiculous,  only  I'm  so  afraid  they'll  be 
worried  about  me  at  home.  If  anybody  had  only 
seen  me  as  I  rode  off,  and  could  tell  them ! 

Miss  Ashton  had  not  laughed  so  much  in  a 
long  time,  the  fun  of  the  thing  outweighed  the 
misery,  and  they  were  all  veiy  merry  for  a  few 
minutes.  There  was  something  straightforward 
and  homelike  and  pleasant  in  Miss  Catherine's 
face,  and  the  other  travellers  liked  her  at  once, 
as  she  did  them.  The}*  were  going  to  a  town 
nearer  the  mountains  for  the  summer.  Miss 
Ashton  was  just  getting  over  a  severe  illness ; 
and  the}'  asked  about  the  place  to  which  the}' 
were  bound,  but  Miss  Spring  could  tell  them 
little  about  it. 

"The  country  is  beautiful  around  here,  isn't 
it?"  said  Alice  West,  when  there  was  a  pause: 
the  shadows  were  growing  long,  and  the  sun 
was  almost  ready  to  go  down  among  the  hills. 
"•  Brookton !  didn't  you  notice  an  advertisement 


98  OLD  FRIENDS  AND   NEW. 

of  some  one  who  wanted  boarders  there,  aunty? 
You  thought  it  was  hardly  near  enough  to  the 
mountains,  didn't  you?  but  this  is  beautiful." 

u  Why,  that  was  ni}*  notice,"  said  Miss  Spring  ; 
and  then  she  stopped,  and  flushed  a  little.  I 
believe,  if  she  had  thought  a  moment,  she  would 
not  have  spoken  ;  but  Miss  Ashton  saw  the  hesi 
tation  and  the  flush. 

"  I  wish  I  were  going  to  spend  the  summer  with 
3'ou,"  said  she  by 'and  Iry,  in  her  frank,  pleas 
ant  wa}\  And  Miss  Catherine  said,  "I  wish 
you  were,"  and  sighed  quietly;  she  felt  wonder 
fully  at  home  with  these  strangers,  and,  in  spite 
of  her  anno3"ance  when  she  thought  of  her  guests, 
she  was  enjoying  herself.  "I  live  all  alone," 
she  said  once,  in  speaking  of  something  else  ; 
and,  if  s*he  had  been  alone  with  Miss  Ashton,  I 
think  she  would  have  told  her  something  of  her 
troubles,  of  which  we  know  her  heart  was  veiy 
full.  Eveiybody  found  it  eas\'  to  talk  to  Miss 
Ashton,  but  there  was  the  niece  ;  and  Miss  Cath 
erine,  like  most  elderly  women  of  strong  charac 
ter  who  live  alone,  was  used  to  keeping  her 
.affairs  to  herself,  and  felt  a  certain  pride  in  being 
uncommunicative. 

When  the  conductor  looked  in,  with  surprise 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  99 

at  seeing  the  new  passenger,  Alice  West  asked 
him  the  fare  to  Hillsfield,  the  next  station  ;  and, 
after  paying  him,  gave  as  much  money  to  Miss 
Spring,  who  took  it  reluctantly,  though  there  was 
nothing  else  to  be  done. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  to  thank 
you,"  said  she;  "but  you  must  tell  me  how  to 
direct  to  you  and  I  will  send  the  mone}'  back  to 
morrow." 

"  Xo,  indeed!"  said  the  girl:  but  Miss 
Spring  looked  unhapp}r ;  and  Miss  Ashton,  with 
truer  kindness,  gave  her  the  direction,  saying,  — 

"  Please  tell  us  how  you  found  your  friends  at 
home  ;  because  Alice  and  I  will  wish  very  much 
to  know  what  the}'  thought." 

"  You  have  been  so  kind  ;  I  sha'n't  forget  it," 
said  Miss  Catherine,  with  a  little  shake  in  her 
voice  that  was  not  made  by  the  cars. 

Alice  had  taken  from  her  travelling-bag  a  little 
white  hood  which  she  had  seen  in  a  drawer  that 
morning  after  her  trunk  was  locked  and  strapped, 
and  had  put  it  over  Miss  Catherine's  head.  It 
was  very  becoming,  and  it  did  not  look  at  all 
unsuitable  for  an  elderly  woman  to  wear  in  the 
evening,  just  from  one  station  to  the  next.  And 
she  was  going  to  wrap  the  cream-pitcher  in  some 
paper,  when  Miss  Catherine  said  softly,  — 


100  OLD   FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

"Does  your  aunty  care  any  thing  about 
cream  ?  ' ' 

"  She  likes  it  clearly,"  said  the  girl,  looking  so 
much  pleased.  "  I  had  half  a  mind  to  ask  you  if 
3011  could  spare  just  a  little;"  and  Miss  Ash- 
ton's  little  tumbler  was  at  once  delightedly  filled 
to  the  very  brim. 

Its  owner  said  she  had  not  tasted  any  thing  so 
delicious  in  a  long  time  ;  and  would  not  Miss 
Spring  take  some  little  biscuit  and  some  grapes 
to  eat  while  she  waited  in  the  station?  Yes, 
indeed  :  the}'  had  more  than  the}'  wanted,  and  she 
must  not  forget  it  was  tea-time  already.  Alice 
would  wrap  some  up  for  her  in  a  paper. 

And  at  last  they  shook  hands  most  cordially, 
and  were  so  sorry  to  say  good-b}'. 

tk  I  never  shall  forget  }'our  kindness  as  long  as 
1  live,"  said  Miss  Catherine;  and  Alice  helped 
her  off  the  car,  and  nodded  good-b}'  as  it  started. 

"  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  we  could  board  with 
that  dear  good  soul  this  summer,"  said  Miss 
Ashton,  "  and  I  believe  she  has  been  dreadfully 
grieved  because  her  advertisement  was  not  an 
swered  ;  perhaps  it  may  be  yet.  She  looked  sad 
and  worried,  and  it  was  something  besides  this 
mishap.  What  a  kind  face  she  had  !  I  wish  we 


A  LATE  SVPFER.  101 


knew  more  about  her.'  J'vri  do  glad  we-  hiip^'ehccl 
to  be  just  here,  and  that  she  didn't  have  to  go 
into  the  car." 

'•Yes,"  said  Alice;  "but,  aunt}',  I  think  it 
was  the  funniest  thing  I  ever  saw  in  my  life, 
when  she  appeared  to  me  with  that  horror-stricken 
face  and  her  cream-pitcher." 

And  Miss  Catherine,  as  she  seated  herself  in 
the  little  station  to  wait  for  the  down-train,  said 
to  herself,  '  '  God  bless  them  !  how  good  they 
were  !  How  I  should  have  hated  to  go  into  the 
car  with  all  the  people,  and  be  stared  at  and 
made  fun  of."  They  had  been  so  courteous  and 
simple  and  kind  :  why  are  there  not  more  such 
people  in  the  world?  And  she  thought  about 
them,  and  ate  her  crackers  and  the  hot-house 
grapes,  and  was  very  comfortable.  It  might 
have  been  such  a  disagreeable  experience,  }*et  she 
had  really  enjoyed  herself.  It  did  not  seem  long 
before  she  again  took  her  seat  in  the  cars,  with 
the  cream-pitcher  respectably  disguised  in  white 
paper,  and  herself  looking  well  enough  in  the 
soft  little  white  hood,  with  its  corner  just  in  the 
middle  of  her  gray  hair  over  her  forehead  ;  she 
paid  her  fare  as  if  her  pocket  were  full  of  money, 
and  watched  the  other  people  in  the  car  ;  and  by 


102  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

tliQ  timcjs'ie  reached,  hpaie  die  was  her  own  com 
posed  and  reliable  self  again. 

There  had  been  a  great  excitement  at  her 
house.  The  biscuit  were  done  and  the  ginger 
bread  ;  and  the  niece  took  them  out  of  the  oven, 
and  thought  her  aunt  was  gone  a  good  while, 
and  went  back  to  the  sitting-room.  After  a  few 
minutes  she  went  to  the  front-gate  to  look  down 
the  street.  Miss  Stanby  joined  her ;  and  they 
stood  watching  until  Joseph  Spring  came  hurry 
ing  back,  thinking  he  was  late,  and  ready  with 
his  apologies,  when  the}'  told  him  how  long  Miss 
Catherine  had  been  gone. 

"  She's  stopped  for  something  or  other  :  they're 
always  asking  her  advice  about  things,"  said  he 
carelessly.  "  She  will  be  along  soon."  And  then 
they  went  into  the  house  ;  and  nobody  said  much, 
and  the  tall  clock  ticked  louder  and  louder  ;  and 
Joseph  began  to  whistle  and  drum  with  his  fin 
gers,  meaning  to  show  his  unconcern,  but  in 
reality  betra}-ing  the  opposite  feeling. 

"You  don't  suppose  she's  sick,  do  3-011?" 
asked  Miss  Stanby  timidly. 

"More  likely  somebod}'  else  is,"  said  Mr. 
Spring.  "  Did  }'ou  say  she  had  gone  to  Mrs. 
Hilton's,  Martha?  I'll  walk  down  there,  and 
see  what  the  matter  is." 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  103 

t;  I  wish  you  would,"  said  his  wife.  "  It's 
after  six  o'clock." 

"  Hasn't  got  home  yet !  "  said  Mrs.  Hilton  in 
dismay.  "  Why,  what  can  have  become  of  her? 
She  came  in  before  half-past  five,  in  a  great 
hurry  ;  and  she  left  her  pitcher  here  on  the  table. 
1  suppose  she  forgot  it.  I  lent  her  mine,  because 
it  was  bigger.  There's  no  house  between  but 
the  Donalds',  and  they're  all  off  at  his  mother's 
funeral  to  Lancaster.  You  don't  suppose  the 
cars  run  over  her?  " 

44 1  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Spring's  nephew, 
in  real  trouble  by  this  time. 

They  went  out  together,  and  looked  everywhere 
along  the  road,  apologizing  to  each  other  as  the}' 
did  so.  The}'  went  up  and  down  the  railroad  for 
some  little  distance,  and  it  was  a  great  relief  not 
to  find  her  there.  Joseph  asked  some  men  if 
they  had  seen  his  aunt ;  and  when  they  said  no, 
wonderingly,  and  expected  an  explanation,  he 
did  not  give  it,  he  hardly  knew  why.  They  went 
to  the  house  beyond  Miss  Catherine's,  though 
Martha  and  Miss  Stanby  were  sure  she  had  not 
gone  by.  They  looked  in  the  barn  even :  they 
went  out  into  the  garden  and  through  the  house, 
for  she  might  possibly  have  come  in  without 


104  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

being  seen  ;  but  she  had  apparently  disappeared 
from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

It  had  seemed  so  foolish  at  first  to  tell  the 
neighbors  ;  but  by  seven  o'clock,  or  nearly  that, 
Martha  Spring  said  decisively,  t;  She  cannot 
have  gone  far  unless  she  has  been  carried  off.  I 
think  you  had  better  get  some  men,  and  have  a 
regular  hunt  for  her  before  it  gets  any  darker. 
I'm  not  going  home  to-night  until  we  find  her.  " 
And  the}'  owned  to  each  other  that  it  was  a  very 
serious  and  frightful  thing.  Miss  Stanby  looked 
most  concerned  and  apprehensive  of  the  three, 
and  suggested  what  had  been  uppermost  in  her 
mind  all  the  time,  —  that  it  would  be  so  awful  if 
poor  Miss  Spring  had  been  murdered,  or  could 
she  have  killed  herself  ?  There  was  something  so 
uncharacteristic  in  the  idea  of  Miss  Catherine's 
committing  suicide,  that  for  a  moment  her  nephew 
could  not  resist  a  smile  ;  but  he  was  grave  enough 
again  directry,  for  it  might  be  true,  after  all,  and 
he  remembered  with  a  thrill  of  horror  that  old  Mr. 
Elden,  the  lawyer,  had  told  him  in  confidence, 
that  Miss  Spring  was  somewhat  pinched  for 
money,  —  that  her  affairs  were  in  rather  a  bad 
wa}~,  and  perhaps  he  had  better  talk  with  her,  as 
he  himself  did  not  like  to  have  all  the  responsi 
bility  of  advising  her. 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  105 

"Poor  old  lady!"  thought  Joseph  Spring, 
who  was  a  tender-hearted  man.  "  She  looked 
to-day  as  if  she  felt  bad  about  something.  She 
has  grown  old  this  last  }'ear,  that's  a  fact !  "  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  she  were  in  truth  dead  al 
ready.  "  You  had  better  look  all  over  the 
house,"  said  he  to  his  wife.  "  Did  you  look  in 
the  garret?  "  He  remembered  the  story  that 
his  great-grandfather  had  been  found  hanging 
there,  and  could  not  have  gone  to  the  garret  him 
self  to  save  his  life. 

lie  went  hunying  out  of  the  house,  determined 
now  to  make  the  disappearance  public.  He  would 
go  to  the  depot,  there  were  always  some  men 
there  at  this  time.  The  church-bell  began  to 
ring  for  \Vrednesday-e veiling  meeting,  and  she 
had  always  gone  so  regularly  ;  he  would  hurry 
back  there,  and  tell  the  people  as  the}'  came.  The 
train  went  by  slowly  to  stop  at  the  station,  it 
was  a  little  behind  time.  He  hurried  on,  looking 
down  as  he  walked.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  was 
thinking  about  the  funeral,  and  suddenly  he 
heard  a  familiar  voice  say,  — 

"  Well,  Joseph  !  I  suppose  you  thought  I  was 
lost!" 

"  Heavens  and  earth,  Aunt  Catherine  !     Where 


106  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

have  you  been  ?  ' '  And  he  caught  her  by  the 
shoulder,  and  felt  suddenly  like  crying  and  laugh 
ing  together.  u  I  never  had  an}*  thing  come  over 
me  so  in  all  1113'  life,"  said  he  to  his  wife  and  Miss 
Stanby,  as  the}*  went  home  later  that  evening. 
"  I  declare,  it  took  the  wits  right  out  of  me." 

Miss  Catherine  looked  brighter  than  she  had 
that  afternoon,  the  excitement  really  had  done 
her  good  ;  she  told  her  adventure  as  the}'  hurried 
home  together.  When  they  reached  the  house 
Martha  Spring  and  Miss  Stanby  kissed  her,  and 
cried  as  if  their  hearts  would  break.  Joseph 
looked  out  of  the  window  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  announced  that  he  would  go  out  and  see  to 
the  horse. 

The  tears  were  soon  over  with ;  and,  as  soon 
as  it  seemed  decent,  Mrs.  Martha  said,  "Aunt 
Catherine,  do  tell  me  where  you  got  that  pretty 
hood  !  I  wish  I  had  seen  it  when  I  first  got  here, 
to  take  the  pattern.  Isn't  it  a  new  stitch?  " 

"  Dear  me  !  haven't  I  taken  it  off  ?  "  said  Miss 
Catherine.  "  Well,  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  am 
scatter-witted.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  gone  a 
week." 

They  had  supper  directly  —  that  very  late 
supper !  They  were  all  as  hungry  as  hunters, 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  107 

even  poor  little  Miss  Stanby ;  and  the  re-action 
from  such  suspense  made  the  guests  merry 
enough,  while,  as  was  often  said,  Miss  Catherine 
was  always  good  company.  The  cream-tartar 
biscuits  were  none  the  less  good  for  being  cold. 
Joseph  hadn't  eaten  such  gingerbread  since  he 
was  there  before  ;  and  the  tea  was  made  fresh 
over  a  dry-shingle  fire,  which  blazes  in  a  minute, 
as  every  one  knows.  There  were  more  than 
enough  pound-cakes  ;  and  Martha  asked  all  over 
again  how  Miss  Catherine  made  her  preserves, 
for  somehow  hers  were  never  so  good ;  while 
Miss  Catherine  meekly  said  that  she  had  not  had 
such  good  luck  as  usual  with  the  last  she  made. 

At  last  they  drove  off  down  the  road.  The 
moon  had  come  up,  and  was  shining  through  the 
trees.  It  was  so  cool  and  fresh  and  bright  an 
evening,  with  a  little  yellow  still  lingering  in  the 
west  after  the  sunset !  The  guests  went  away 
very  happy  and  light-hearted,  for  it  seemed  as  if 
they  had  been  spared  a  terrible  sorrow. 

'•  I  saw  the  prettiest  little  old-fashioned  table 
up  in  the  garret,"  said  Mrs.  Martha.  4'  It  only 
needs  fixing  up  a  little.  I  mean  to  ask  your 
Aunt  Catherine  if  I  can't  have  it  when  I  go  over 
again." 


108  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

u  No,  you  won't,"  said  her  husband,  with  more 
authorit}"  than  was  usual  with  him. 

Miss  Catherine  stood  watching  at  the  gate 
until  they  were  out  of  sight.  "I  must  settle 
down,"  said  she.  "I  feel  as  if  it  had  been  a 
wedding  or  a  funeral  or  something ;  and  I  declare 
if  it  isn't  Wednesday  evening,  and  what  will 
they  think  has  become  of  me  at  meeting?" 
though  she  could  have  trusted  Mrs.  Hilton  to 
spread  the  stoiy  far  and  wide  —  by  which  3-011 
must  not  suppose  that  good  Mrs.  Hilton  was  a 
naught}'  gossip. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Catherine  waked  up 
even  more  heavy-hearted  than  she  had  been  the 
day  before.  I  suppose  she  was  tired  after  the 
unusual  excitement.  She  wished  she  had  talked 
to  Joseph,  she  must  talk  with  somebody.  She 
wished  she  had  not  been  such  a  fool  as  to  get 
on  those  cars,  for  she  was  sure  she  never  should 
hear  the  last  of  the  joke  ;  and,  after  the  morning 
work  was  done,  she  sat  down  in  the  sitting-room 
with  the  clock  ticking  mockingl}',  and  that  in 
tolerable  feeling  of  despair  and  disgust  came 
over  her ;  there  is  nothing  much  harder  to  bear 
than  that,  if  you  know  what  it  is  I  am  sure  you 
will  pity  her. 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  109 

The  afternoon  seemed  very  long.  It  rained  ; 
and  nobody  came  in  until  the  evening,  when  Mrs. 
Hilton's  boy  came  with  a  letter.  Miss  Catherine 
had  been  to  the  post-office  just  before  dinner,  to 
send  the  money  to  Miss  Ashton ;  and  this  sur 
prised  her  very  much.  ''It  must  have  come  by 
the  seven-o'clock  train,"  said  she.  l>  I  never 
get  letters  from  that  wa}* ;  "  and  she  took  it  to 
the  window,  and  looked  curious!}'  at  the  address, 
and  at  last  she  opened  it.  It  was  a  pretty  letter 
to  look  at,  and  it  proved  a  pleasant  one  to  read. 
It  was  from  Alice  West,  Miss  Ashton's  niece; 
and  Miss  Catherine  read  it  slowly,  and  felt  as  if 
she  were  in  a  dream. 

"Mv  DEAH  Miss  &PRIXG, —  My  aunt,  Miss  Asliiou, 

wishes  me  to  write  to  you,  to  ask  if  it  would  be  con 
venient  for  you  to  take  us  to  board.  We  are  very  much 
disappointed  here,  and  are  glad  we  did  not  positively 
engage  our  rooms  until  we  had  seen  them.  It  is  a  very 
damp  house,  and  I  am  sure  my  aunt  ought  not  to  stay, 
and  would  be  uncomfortable  in  many  ways.  We  should 
like  two  rooms  close  to  each  other,  and  we  were  each  to 
pay  ten  dollars  a  week  here,  but  are  perfectly  willing 
to  pay  more  than  that.  We  are  almost  certain  that  we 
shall  like  your  house;  but  perhaps  it  will  be  the  better 
way  for  me  to  come  down  and  see  you,  and  then  1  can 
make  all  the  arrangements.  If  Brookton  suits  my  aunt, 
we  may  wish  to  stay  as  late  as  October;  and  should  you 


110  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

mind  if  one  of  my  friends  comes  to  stay  with  us  by  and 
by  ?  She  would  share  my  room.  If  you  will  write  me 
to-morrow  morning,  and  if  you  think  you  can  take  us,  I 
will  go  down  in  the  early  afternoon  train. 

"  We  hope  you  reached  home  all  right,  and  that  your 
friends  were  not  much  worried.  We  begin  to  think 
that  your  adventure  was  a  fortunate  thing  for  us.  With 
kind  regards  from  us  both, 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"ALICE  WEST." 

Did  }'Oii  ever  know  an}'  thing  more  fortunate 
than  this?  Poor  Miss  Catherine  sat  down  and 
cried  about  it ;  and  the  cat  came  and  rubbed 
against  her  foot,  and  purred  sympathizing!}-,  and 
was  taken  up  and  wept  over,  which  I  believe 
bad  never  happened  to  her  before.  Of  all  people, 
who  could  be  pleasanter  boarders  than  these? 
The}'  had  won  her  heart  in  the  half-hour  she  had 
already  spent  with  them.  She  had  wished  then 
that  they  were  coming  to  her :  it  would  be  such  a 
pleasure  to  make  them  comfortable.  And  twenty 
dollars  a  week,  —  that  would  surety  be  more  than 
enough  for  them  all  to  live  upon  with  what  she 
had  beside.  And  there  was  Katy,  who  could 
save  so  many  steps,  and  could  wait  on  Miss  Ash- 
ton  ;  she  would  have  the  child  come  at  once. 
She  could  have  Mrs.  Brown  come  every  dny  for 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  Ill 

a  while,  beside  Mondays  and  Tuesdays ;  and 
how  glad  she  would  be  of  the  extra  pay  !  Miss 
Catherine  even  went  up  stairs  in  the  late  June 
twilight,  to  look  at  the  two  familiar  front-cham 
bers,  with  only  the  small  square  hall  separating 
them.  The}*  looked  so  pleasant,  and  were  so  airy 
and  of  such  good  size,  they  could  not  help  being 
suited.  She  patted  the  pillow  of  her  best  bed 
affectionately,  and  thought  with  pride  that  they 
would  find  no  fault  with  her  way  of  cooking, 
and  her  house  never  was  damp  ;  there  was  not 
a  better  house  in  Brookton.  Life  had  rarely 
looked  brighter  to  Miss  Catherine  than  it  did  that 
night. 

Alice  West  came  down  the  next  afternoon,  and 
found  the  house  and  the  rooms  and  Miss  Cather 
ine  herself  were  all  exactly  what  wise  Miss  Ash- 
ton  had  said  they  would  be.  And  the  two  board 
ers  thought  themselves  lucky  to  have  found  such 
a  pleasant  house  for  the  summer ;  the}*  were  so 
considerate,  and  became  favorites  with  many 
people  beside  their  hostess.  They  brought  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  and  good-will  to  sober  little 
Brookton,  as  two  cultivated,  thoughtful,  helpful 
women  may  make  any  place  pleasanter  if  the}* 
choose.  Miss  Ashton  is  a  help  and  a  comfort 


112  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

and  a  pleasure  wherever  she  goes,  while  Alice 
West  is  learning  to  be  like  her  more  and  more 
every  3'ear.  Miss  Catherine  remembered  some 
times  with  great  thankfulness,  that  it  was  the  loss 
of  her  money  for  a  while  that  had  brought  her 
these  friends.  Katy  Dunning  was  so  happy  to 
go  to  live  at  Miss  Spring's  after  all,  and  did  her 
very  best,  —  a  patient,  steady,  willing  little 
creature  she  was  !  and  1  am  sure  she  never  had 
had  so  many  good  times  in  her  life  as  she  did 
that  summer. 

I  might  tell  you  so  much  more  about  these 
people,  but  a  story  must  end  somewhere.  You 
may  hope  that  Miss  Catherine's  fortunes  bettered, 
and  that  she  never  will  have  to  give  up  her  home  ; 
that  she  can  keep  Kat^y  all  the  time  ;  that  Miss 
Ashton  will  come  back  to  Brookton  the  next 
year,  and  the  next. 

I  am  sure  3-011  will  think,  in  reading  all  this, 
just  what  I  have  thought  as  I  told  it,  —  and  what 
Miss  Catherine  herself  felt,  —  that  it  was  such  a 
wonderfully  linked-together  chain.  All  the  time 
she  thought  she  was  going  wrong,  that  it  was  a 
series  of  mistakes.  "  I  never  will  be  so  miser 
able  again,"  said  she.  "  It  was  all  ordered  for 
the  best ;  and  ma}-  the  Lord  forgive  me  for  doubt- 


A  LATE  SUPPER.  113 

ing  his  care  and  goodness  as  I  did  that  day !  " 
It  went  straight  to  her  heart  the  next  Sunday, 
when  the  old  minister  said  in  his  sermon,  "  Dear 
friends,  do  not  let  us  forget  what  the  Psalmist 
says,  that  the  steps  of  a  good  man  are  ordered 
by  the  Lord.  He  plans  the  way  we  go ;  and  so 
let  us  always  try  to  see  what  he  means  in  send 
ing  us  this  way  or  that.  Do  not  let  us  go  astray 
from  wilfulness,  or  blame  him  for  the  work  he 
gives  us  to  do,  or  the  burdens  he  gives  us  to 
cany,  since  he  knows  best." 

So  often,  in  looking  back,  we  find  that  what 
seemed  the  unluckiest  day  of  the  week  really 
proved  most  fortunate,  and  what  we  called  bad 
luck  proved  just  the  other  thing.  We  trace  out 
the  good  results  of  what  we  thought  must  make 
everything  go  wrong:  we  say,  "  If  it  had  not 
been  for  this  or  that,  I  should  have  missed  and 
lost  so  much."  I  once  happened  to  open  a  book 
of  sermons,  and  to  see  the  title  of  one,  "Eveiy 
Man's  Life  a  Plan  of  God."  I  did  not  read  the 
sermon  itself,  and  have  never  seen  the  book 
again ;  but  I  have  thought  of  it  a  great  man}* 
times.  Since  it  is  true  that  our  lives  are  planned 
with  the  greatest  love  and  wisdom,  must  it  not 
be  that  our  sorrows  and  hindrances  come  just 
from  our  taking  things  wrong? 


114  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

And  here,  for  the  last  of  the  story,  is  a  verse 
that  Robert  Browning  wrote,  that  Miss  Ashton 
said  one  morning,  and  Miss  Catherine  liked :  — 

"  Grow  old  along  with  me! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 
The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 

Who  saith  'A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God :  see  all,  nor  be  afraid ! '  " 


MR.  BRUCE. 

JAST  summer  (said  Aunt  Mary),  while 
you  were  with  your  father  in  Canada,  I 
met  for  the  first  time  Miss  Margaret 
Tennant  of  Boston,  whom  I  had  for  years  a  great 
desire  to  see  and  know.  My  dear  friend,  Anne 
Langdon,  has  had  from  her  girlhood  two  very 
intimate  friends ;  and  Miss  Tennant  is  one,  and  I 
the  other.  Though  we  each  had  known  the  other 
through  Anne,  we  had  never  seen  each  other 
before. 

I  was  at  the  mountains,  and  upon  our  being 
introduced  we  became  very  good  friends  immedi 
ately  ;  and,  from  at  first  holding  complimentary 
and  interesting  conversations  concerning  Anne 
in  the  hotel  parlor,  we  came  to  taking  long  walks, 
and  spending  the  most  of  our  time  together; 
and  now  we  are  as  fond  of  each  other  as  possi 
ble.  When  we  parted  in  September,  I  had 
promised  to  visit  her  at  her  house  in  Boston  in 

115 


116  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

the  winter ;  and,  when  she  was  ready  for  it,  I 
was  too. 

To  my  great  delight,  I  found  Anne  there  ;  and 
we  three  old  maiden  ladies  enjo3*ecl  ourselves 
quite  as  well  as  if  we  were  your  age,  my  dear, 
with  the  world  before  us.  Miss  Margaret  Ten- 
nant  certainly  keeps  house  most  delightfully. 

She  lives  alone  in  the  old  Tennant  house,  in  a 
pleasant  street ;  and  I  think  most  of  the  Ten- 
nants,  for  a  dozen  generations  back,  must  have 
been  maiden  ladies  with  exquisite  taste  and  deep 
purses,  just  like  herself;  for  eveiy  thing  there  is 
perfect  of  its  kind,  and  its  kind  the  right  kind. 
Then  she  is  such  a  popular  person :  it  is  charm 
ing  to  see  the  delight  her  friends  have  in  her. 
For  one  thing,  all  the  young  ladies  of  her  ac 
quaintance  —  not  to  mention  her  nieces,  who 
seem  to  bow  down  and  worship  her  —  are  her 
devoted  friends  ;  and  she  often  gives  them  din 
ners  and  tea  parties,  takes  them  to  pla^-s  and 
concerts,  matronizes  them  in  the  summer,  takes 
them  to  drive  in  her  handsome  carriages,  and  Is 
the  repository  of  all  their  jo}'S  and  sorrows,  and, 
I  have  no  doubt,  knows  them  better  than  their 
fathers  and  mothers  do,  and  has  nearly  as  much 
influence  over  them.  Ellj-,  my  dear,  I  wish  you 


MR.  BRUCE.  117 

were  one  of  the  clan ;  for  I'm  afraid,  between 
your  careless  papa  and  your  wicked  aunty,  you 
haven't  had  the  most  irreproachable  bringing  up  ! 
But,  she  is  coming  to  visit  me  in  June,  and  we'll 
see  what  she  can  do  for  you  ! 

One  night,  while  I  was  there,  wre  were  just 
home  from  a  charming  dinner-part}'  at  the  house 
of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Bruce  ;  and,  as  it  was  a  very 
stormy  night,  we  had  come  away  earl}'.  Not 
being  in  the  least  tired,  we  sat  ourselves  down  in 
our  accustomed  easy- chairs  before  the  fire,  for  a 
talk,  and  were  lazily  making  plans  for  the  mor 
row  ;  Miss  Tennant  telling  us  she  should  have 
the  eight  young  ladies  whom  she  knew  best ;  the 
Quadrille  as  she  calls  them  ;  to  dine  with  us.  I 
must  tell  you  about  that  part}'  some  day,  Elly. 
It  was  the  nicest  affair  in  its  way  I  ever  saw,  and 
the  girls  were  all  such  dear  ones  !  I  spoke  of  the 
company  we  had  just  left,  and  of  my  admiration 
of  the  Bruce  family  in  general,  and  Mrs.  Bruce 
in  particular,  and  of  my  enjoyment  of  the  even 
ing. 

"  Yes,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  think  Kitty  is  quite 
as  young  as  her  two  daughters,  and  at  their  age 
she  was  more  brilliant  than  either."  She  stopped 
talking  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  Girls,  are 


118  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

3~ou  in  a  hurry  for  bed  ?"  (Elly  !  you  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself  for  laughing !  Juct  as  if 
Anne  Langdon  and  I  were  not  as  .young  as  you 
and  Nelly  Cameron.  There's  no  difference ,  some 
times,  if  we  are  fifty,  and  3*011  twenty !) 

We  were  not  in  a  hurry,  and  told  her  so. 

44  Then,"  said  Margaret,  "I  will  tell  you  a 
stoiy.  Anne  knows  it,  or  used  to ;  but  I  doubt 
if  she  has  thought  of  it  these  dozen  years,  and  I 
do  not  think  she  will  mind  hearing  it  again.  It 
is  about  Kitty  and  Mr.  Bruce,  and  their  first  meet 
ing  ;  also  divers  singular  misunderstandings  which 
followed,  finally  ending  in  their  peaceful  wedding 
in  this  very  room." 

Anne  laughed  ;  and  I  settled  myself  contented 
ly  in  my  chair,  for  I  had  already  found  out  that 
Miss  Tennant  possesses  the  art  of  telling  a  story 
capitally. 

"  Kitty  Bruce  is  three  years  older  than  I," 
said  Margaret,  —  "  though  I  dare  say  you  do  not 
believe  me,  —  and  consequently,  at  the  time  I  was 
fifteen  she  was  eighteen ;  and  whereas  I  was  in 
my  first  }Tear  at  boarding-school,  she  was  about 
finishing.  I  was  at  Mrs.  Walkintwo's,  where 
you  and  I  met,  Anne  ;  and  that,  as  you  know, 
was  a  quiet  place,  where  we  were  taught  history 


MR.  BRUCE.  119 

and  arithmetic,  and  the  other  'solids,'  and  from 
which  she  had  graduated  the  }-ear  before,  and 
gone  to  Madame  Riche's  to  acquire  the  extras 
and  be  '  finished.'  Her  beauty,  was  veiy  striking, 
and  she  was  quite  as  entertaining  and  agreeable 
as  she  is  now,  —  very  witt}*  and  original,  with  the 
kindest  heart  in  the  world,  and  ending  life  to 
the  utmost.  In  the  Easter  vacation  of  that  year 
we  were  at  home  together ;  and  one  morning  I 
was  sitting  with  her  in  her  chamber,  and  she 
was  confiding  to  me  some  of  the  state  secrets  of 
her  room  at  school,  to  1113-  inexpressible  delight, 
for  it  was  my  great  ambition  to  be  intimate 
with  Kitty;  and.  you  know,  that  elder  sisters 
are  often  strangely  blind  to  the  virtues  of  the 
younger. 

44  Mamma  came  in  in  the  midst  of  it,  with  her 
usually  cheerful  face  exceedingly  clouded,  so 
much  so  that  both  of  us  immediately  asked  what 
had  happened. 

"  4  Happened  !'  said  poor  mamma,  sitting  down 
disconsolately  on  Kitty's  bed,  and  helping  her 
self,  by  way  of  relief,  from  a  box  of  candy  which 
kvy  there.  *  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I'm  to 
do.  Your  father  has  just  sent  me  a  note  from 
the  office,  saying  he  has  invited  four  gentlemen 


120  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

to  dine,  and  wishes  to  have  every  thing  as  nice  as 
possible.  I  can  send  John  for  the  dinner  ;  and, 
of  course,  I  don't  mind  that  part  of  it,  for  there 
is  time  enough  and  to  spare,  and  Pegg}-  never 
fails  me  ;  but  you  know  Hannah  is  away  ;  and  this 
morning  a  small  Irish  boy  came  for  Ann,  saying 
his  sister  is  sick  and  she  went  away  with  him. 
About  an  hour  ago  another  little  wretch  came  to 
say  she  was  obliged  to  go  to  Salem  with  the 
sister,  and  would  be  back  to  breakfast.  Now, 
children,  what  shall  I  do  for  some  one  to  wait  on 
the  table  ? 

"  Kitty  and  I  were  as  much  posed  as  mamma. 
John,  our  coachman,  was  an  immense  Englishman, 
and  perfectly  unavailable  as  to  taking  upon  him 
self  any  of  Ann's  duties  save  waiting  upon  the 
door.  His  daughter,  who  had  been  our  nurse 
and  was  at  that  time  seamstress,  might  have  done 
very  well,  but  she  was  awa}'  at  Portsmouth  ;  and 
as  for  Peggy,  our  dear  old  black  cook,  though  I 
never  knew  any  one  to  equal  her  in  her  realm, 
the  kitchen,  she  had  no  idea  of  any  thing  out  of 
it,  and  never  had  done  any  thing  of  this  kind. 
It  was  raining  in  torrents,'  and  none  of  us  could 
go  out ;  and  we  sat  and  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Suddenly  Kitty  clapped  her  hands.  'Mum- 
ma,'  said  she,  '  read  us  their  names  again.' 


MR.   BRUCE.  121 

"  So  mamma  read  the  names  of  two  gentlemen 
from  South  America,  and  one  from  New  Orleans, 
and  that  of  Mr.  Philip  Bruce  of  London. 

"  'All  perfect  strangers  except  to  papa,'  said 
Kitty  jo3~fully  ;  '  and  they're  interested  in  that 
South-American  business  of  his,  and  are  all  on 
their  way  there  very  likely  ;  and  we  shall  never 
see  them  again.' 

"'Well,  child,  what  has  all  this  to  do  with 
Ann's  being  gone?  ' 

"'I'll  tell  3'ou,  mamma:  I  have  the  jolliest 
plan,  and  it  will  be  such  fun !  I  shall  be  so 
disappointed  if  3*011  sa}'  no  to  me.  It  isn't  the 
least  harm,  and  I  know  it  will  make  no  trouble. 
Just  let  me  wear  one  of  Ann's  white  aprons  and 
look  stupid,  you  call  me  Katherine,  and  I'll  wait 
on  the  table  as  well  as  she  could.  No  one  ever 
notices  the  servants,  and  I'm  not  like  you  or  papa 
or  Margaret.  You  can  turn  in}'  portrait  to  the 
wall  in  the  drawing-room,  and  they'll  think  it's 
somebody  that  is  disinherited.  Those  gentlemen 
haven't  the  least  particle  of  information  concern 
ing  papa's  family  ;  the}'  may  be  possessed  of  the 
delusion  that  he  is  a  bachelor  in  lodgings,  for  all 
we  know  ;  and  if  any  thing  is  said  about  your 
children,  tell  them  that  3-0111-  sons  arc  in  college 


122  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

and  your  eldest  daughter  with  a  friend.  Of  course 
I  shall  be,  whether  I  am  with  Peggy  in  the  kitchen 
or  standing  behind  you.  Oh  !  I'd  like  it  so  much 
better  than  sitting  at  the  table  ;  and  Peggy  will 
never  tell.  Who  will  be  the  wiser  ?  ' 

"Mamma  at  first,  though  very  much  amused, 
shook  her  head,  and  said  it  was  too  foolish  to  be 
thought  of ;  we  could  explain  our  troubles  to  the 
gentlemen,  and  get  on  as  best  we  could  ;  but 
Kate  would  not  give  up.  Mamma  gave  some 
very  good  reasons  ;  what  should  we  do  without 
Kitty  to  help  entertain  them?  And  any  one, — 
though  she  knew  it  wouldn't  be  considered  proper 
conduct  in  a  mother  to  make  such  a  remark,  — 
any  one  would  know  Kate  was  not  a  servant. 
Papa,  too,  would  want  her  to  sing  for  them  in 
the  evening  (for,  though  her  voice  is  wonderfully 
sweet  now,  then  she  sang  like  a  bird  ;  and  we 
were  all  very  proud  of  the  girl,  as  well  we  might 
be). 

"  But  she  upset  all  mamma's  arguments,  ask 
ing  her  how  in  the  world  she  entertained  so  much 
company  unaided,  during  the  }*ears  she  was 
unable  to  appear  on  account  of  extreme  3'outh. 
She  was  charmed  to  hear  her  say  she  was  too  good 
looking ;  but  as  to  her  being  wanted  to  sing,  just 


MR.  BRUCE.  123 

see  if  the  whole  five  didn't  go  direct!}-  to  the  li 
brary,  and  if  the  waste-paper  basket  wasn't  filled 
with  papers  covered  with  figures  in  the  morning ! 

"  And  so  the  end  was,  that  mamma  very  reluc- 
lantly  yielded  to  our  teasing.  Peggy,  to  whom 
the  secret  was  instantly  confided,  nearly  went 
into  fits  with  laughing ;  and  the  more  we  all 
thought  of  it  the  more  we  were  amused.  Kitty 
suggested  our  total  discomfiture  in  case  papa 
brought  home  some  one  who  knew  her.  I  sug 
gested,  that,  if  it  were  any  one  we  were  intimate 
with,  we  take  them  into  the  secret,  for  I  wished 
to  see  how  Kate  would  cany  it  out ;  and  if  it  were 
not,  we  might  —  and  thereby  I  nearly  ruined  the 
whole  affair  —  send  for  the  'lending'  of  Mrs. 
Duncan's  Mary,  — Mrs.  Duncan  being  a  great 
friend  of  ours,  who  lived  01113-  a  door  or  two 
away.  Such  a  pull  as  Kitty  gave  my  dress  when 
I  mentioned  it ! 

"  However,  in  due  season  papa  appeared  with 
the  four  strangers,  who  had  been  at  the  office  with 
him  all  da}-,  and,  luckily,  no  one  with  them.  He 
was  duly  made  acquainted  with  the  programme 
for  the  evening ;  and  finding  the  plans  all  settled, 
and  Kitty's  heart  evidently  set  upon  them,  he 
madii  but  little  opposition,  considering  the  disap- 


124  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

pointment  it  probably  was  to  him  not  to  show  his 
uncommonly  nice  little  daughter.  We  three  could 
hardly  conceal  our  amusement  when  Kate  entered 
the  drawing-room  to  announce  dinner ;  and  it  was 
made  the  harder  for  us  by  the  queer  little  Irish 
brogue  she  had  assumed  for  the  occasion.  The 
guests  —  one  in  particular  —  could  evidently  not 
account  for  so  striking  a  displaj*  of  beauty  and 
grace  in  so  humble  a  position. 

"The  dinner  went  off  capitally.  Kitty  was 
perfection  ;  and  the  only  way  I  could  see  that 
she  betra}'ed  herself  was  in  having,  for  a  moment 
or  two,  the  most  interested  expression  during  a 
conversation  we  were  all  very  much  interested  in. 
She  told  me  afterward  that  she  came  veiy  near 
giving  her  opinion,  —  and  I  know  it  would  have 
been  very  sensible  and  original, — in  the  most 
decided  manner.  Wouldn't  it  have  been  shock 
ing? 

"  We  sat  a  much  longer  time  than  usual.  The 
three  gentlemen  from  the  South  were  middle-aged, 
and  evidently  absorbed  in  business  ;  but  the  Eng 
lishman  was  not  over  thirty,  and  as  handsome  and 
agreeable  as  possible.  He  watched  Kitt}'  as  often 
as  he  dared,  to  our  great  amusement;  and  once, 
as  she  left  tht:1  room,  seemed  on  the  point  of  ask- 


MR.  BRUCE.  125 

ing  us  about  her.  My  clears,  what  could  mamma 
have  said? 

41  Papa  was  overflowing  with  fun,  and  enjo}'ed 
it  all  very  much.  I  could  see  he  was  nearly 
choking  sometimes  at  Kitty's  unnecessary  '  Yis, 
sur-rs.'  She  never  passed  me  a  plate  without 
giving  me  a  poke  ;  and,  I  dare  say,  reminded 
papa  and  mamma  of  her  existence  in  the  same 
way. 

"As  she  had  prophesied,  they  excused  them 
selves  after  dinner,  and  went  to  the  librar}-,  — 
all  but  Mr.  Bruce,  who  had  no  interest  in  South 
America.  He  had  an  engagement,  and  so  left  us 
in  the  course  of  half  an  hour.  Conceive  our 
amusement,  when,  just  after  we  left  the  table, 
Kitty  entered  with  a  note  on  a  waiter,  and  a  mes 
sage  purporting  to  be  from  Miss  Harriet  Wolfe, 
to  the  effect  that  she  would  call  for  mamma  to  <*o 

Z3 

to  an  afternoon  concert  the  next  day.  I  was  just 
leaving  the  room  as  she  entered  ;  and  I  can  tell 
you  I  hurried  a  bit  after  that ;  and,  as  I  looked 
around  at  mamma  to  see  how  she  bore  it,  she  was 
holding  a  fan  before  her  face,  in  a  perfect  convul 
sion  of  laughter ;  and  there  stood  that  wicked 
Kate,  with  her  hands  folded,  waiting  solemnly 
for  the  answer.  Poor  Miss  Wolfe  had  died  some 


126  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

years  before,  and  had  been  stone-deaf  at  that ! 
How  mamma  gave  the  answer,  or  excused  her 
amusement,  I  have  forgotten.  Kitty  did  it,  as 
she  said  then,  for  a  grand  finale  to  her  masquer 
ading  ;  but  as  she  says  now,  and  I  firmly  believed 
at  the  time,  for  a  parting  look  at  the  Englishman. 

"  He  went  away,  and  Kitty  came  into  the  par 
lor,  and  we  had  a  great  laugh  over  our  dinner- 
part}'  ;  and  the  next  day  it  was  told  to  an  admir 
ing  audience  of  three,  —  grandmamma  and  my 
two  aunts  ;  but  I  think  the  story  never  went  any 
farther,  as  we  did  not  even  dare  to  tell  my  broth 
ers.  Ann  probably  wonders  to  this  da}'  who  took 
her  place. 

' '  The  next  Monday  we  went  back  to  our  two 
boarding-schools,  and  after  a  while  we  forgot  the 
whole  affair.  Kitty  finished  school  with  high 
honors  in  July,  and  '  came  out '  in  November, 
and  was  a  great  belle  in  Boston  all. that  winter. 
I,  in  durance  vile  at  Mrs.  Walkintwo's,  read  her 
journal-letters  to  a  select  circle  of  friends;  and 
the}'  were  a  green  spot  in  our  so-considered  desert 
of  life. 

"  Towards  the  last  of  the  winter,  papa's  sister, 
for  whom  Kate  was  named,  and  who  was  very 
fond  of  her,  sent  for  my  sister  to  come  to  her  for 


ME.  BRUCE.  127 

a  visit  of  a  few  weeks  during  my  uncle's  absence. 
She  wrote  she  would  not  have  to  suspend  her 
pleasure  in  the  least,  as  there  had  never  been 
more  gayety  in  Baltimore  than  at  that  time  ;  and 
some  young  friends  of  Kitty's  had  that  very  day 
come  from  Europe, 'which  was  a  great  induce 
ment.  Baltimore  was  a  kind  of  paradise  to  her, 
and  her  friends  there  were  veiy  dear  ones.  Her 
room-mate  at  Madame  Riehe's,  who  was  her  very 
best  friend,  lived  quite  near  my  uncle  Hunter's, 
and  she  had  not  seen  her  for  months.  Besides, 
Boston  was  getting  dull,  and  she  was  tired,  and 
Baltimore  air  always  made  her  well.  So  it  was 
settled,  and  Kitty  went. 

"Papa  carried  heron;  and  for  the  first  week 
she  had  a  cold,  and  was  not  out  of  the  house. 
However,  her  letters  were  very'  happy  ones  ;  the 
contents  being  mostly  abstracts  of  conversations 
between  herself  and  the  clear  Alice  Thornton, 
and  bits  of  Baltimore  gossip,  in  which  I  wasn't 
particularly  interested.  But  the  cold  got  better, 
and  her  letters  grew  rather  shorter  as  she  got 
farther  into  the  round  of  parties  and  pleasure. 

"Finally  there  came  a  very  thick  letter,  and 
there  was  something  new  on  the  stage.  She 
wrote  to  me  somewhat  after  this  fashion,  while 
staying  with  Miss  Thornton  :  — 


128  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

-'  'You're  not  to  tell  this,  Margie;  but  I'm 
getting  involved  in  what  seems  to  be  a  nryster}*. 
Ever,  since  I've  been  here,  the  girls  have  talked 
to  me  of  the  most  charming  gentleman  ever  seen 
in  Baltimore,  and  they  all  declared  I  must  be  in 
troduced  ;  so  at  last  I  got  up  quite  a  curiosit}*. 
The}'  said  he  was  an  Englishman,  very  rich,  and 
so  handsome  !  wiry  !  if  one  were  to  believe  their 
stories,  he  might  be  carried  about  for  a  show  ! 
He  was  said  to  be  very  reserved,  and  to  pa}*  very 
little  attention  to  any  of  the  3'oung  ladies.  lie 
knows  Mr.  Thornton,  Alice's  father ;  and  they 
are  good  friends,  so  Alice  has  seen  a  good  deal 
of  him,  and  he  has  been  more  polite  to  her  than 
to  any  one  else. 

'-  '  She  had  told  him  of  me,  and  he  seemed 
quite  anxious  to  know  me.  She  had  promised  to 
present  him  the  very  first  chance,  and  that  was 
last  night  at  her  party. 

"'I  wish  I  had  time  to  tell  3*011  about  it. 
Every  one  says  it  was  one  of  the  most  delightful 
ones  ever  given  in  Baltimore,  and  I  did  enjoy  it 
wonderfully.  But  do  let  me  tell  3*011  about  the 
Englishman.  It  was  about  eleven  before  lie 
came,  and  every  thing  was  at  its  height.  I  was 
dancing  with  Mr.  Dent ;  and  the  moment  I 


MR.  BRUCE.  129 

stopped,  up  came  Alice,  with  the  most  elegant- 
looking  man  I  ever  saw  ;  and  the  strangest  thing 
is,  that  I  think  now,  and  thought  then,  I  have 
seen  him  somewhere  before.  He  watched  me  in 
tently  as  he  crossed  the  room,  and  asked  Alice, 
as  she  has  told  me  to-daj*,  who  I  was  ;  and  when 
she  said,  u  That  is  Kitty  Tennant,"  he  looked  as 
pleased  as  Punch.  Don't  tell  mamma,'  said 
Kitty.  I  keep  wondering  where  it  is  I  have  met 
him  ;  but  I  know  I  cannot  have,  for  they  say  he 
is  just  from  England.  But  you  don't  know  how 
queerly  he  acted.  All  at  once  he  looked  as 
puzzled  as  could  be  ;  and  by  the  time  he  was 
close  to  me  he  stared  in  the  queerest  way ;  and 
when  Alice  introduced  us,  he  bowed,  and  said, 
'"Haven't  we  met  before,  Miss  Tennant?"  I 
said,  u  I  think  so ;  "  and  said  I  wished  he  would 
help  me  remember,  for  I  was  very  certain  I  had 
seen  him. 

"  '  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  flash  into  his  mind  ; 
and  he  said  to  himself,  "  It  couldn't  be."  But  I 
heard  him  ;  and  after  that  he  was  a  perfect  icicle  ; 
and  I  didn't  have  the  courage  to  ask  him  any 
questions,  for  I  knew  it  was  something  horrid  by 
his  looks.  He  evidently  mistakes  me  for  some 
one,  and  it  is  so  queer  that  I  finnlj*  believe  I  have 


130  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

seen  him.  He  went  away  from  inc  in  a  veiy  few 
minutes,  and  staid  only  u  half-hour  or  so,  avoid 
ing  Alice  all  the  time.  I  had  promised  all  the 
dances,  and  was  desperatel}'  busy  all  night,  hav 
ing  such  a  good  time  that  I  quite  forgot  this  un 
pleasant  affair.  Alice  came  to  me  after  the 
people  were  gone  away,  and  said,  '-Kate  Ten- 
nant,  what  did  you  say  to  the  poor  man?"  And 
she  seemed  so  utterly  astonished  when  I  told  her 
what  had  happened.  She  cannot  account  for  it 
an\'  more  than  I  can,  and  says  it  is  as  unlike  him 
as  possible.  I  don't  know  whether  I  have  told 
}TOU  his  name  :  it  is  Bruce.'  ' 

When  Miss  Tennant  reached  this  point  in  her 
stoiy.  I  laughed  hear  til}*  (said  Aunt  Mary)  ;  and 
Anne  and  she  laughed  with  me.  "  Why  in  the 
world  didn't  she  know  him,"  said  I:  "I  should 
have  thought  the  circumstances  would  have  made 
her  remember  him  alwa}~s." 

Miss  Tennant  said,  "  Indeed,  I  should  have 
thought  so  too.  I  know  I  should  have  recog 
nized  him  myself  if  I  had  seen  him  ;  but  Kitty 
was  alwa}Ts  the  veiy  worst  person  in  the  world  to 
remember  people,  and  it  had  happened  a  year 
before  nearly.  We  always  had  a  great  many 
guests. 


ME.   BRUCE.  131 

"  When  I  answered  her  letter,  I  said  nothing 
about  him  ;  for  I  must  confess  that  I  did  not  re 
collect  that  the  gentleman  who  stared  so  at  Kitty 
the  night  she  plaj'ed  waiter  was  Mr.  Bruce  of 
London ;  and,  indeed,  I  didn't  feel  particularly 
interested ;  and  my  reply  was  probably  filled  as 
usual  with  an  account  of  the  exciting  things  that 
had  happened  to  me  at  the  school  from  which  I 
so  earnestly  longed  for  deliverance. 

"Kitty  wrote  me  veiy  often;  and  once  in  a, 
while  she  mentioned  this  strange  Mr.  Bruce,  and 
finally  it  occurred  to  me  that  my  sister  was  get 
ting  very  much  interested  in  him  ;  and  as  I  had 
a  woeful  dread  of  losing  her,  I  expostulated  with 
her  concerning  the  foolishness  of  caring  any 
thing  for  a  man  who  had  treated  her  in  so  un- 
courteous  a  way,  and  I  laughed  at  her. 

' '  For  some  time  after  that  she  did  not  allude 
to  him,  and  I  had  nearly  forgotten  him.  At  last 
there  came  a  letter  in  which  Kitty  said,  "  I  must 
tell  you  more  of  Mr.  Bruce,  if  you  are  tired  to 
death  hearing  of  him  ;  for  it  is  really  a  perfect 
mystery.  I  have  seen  him  at  a  number  of  par 
ties,  watching  me  in  the  most  earnest  wa}-,  as  if 
he  enjoyed  it  and  still  was  rather  ashamed.  But 
when  we  meet  he  is  just  as  cool  and  distant  as 


132  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

possible.  Alice  and  I  have  missed  his  calls  ;  and 
all  the  way  he  has  betra}~ed  the  slightest  inter 
est  in  me  to  any  one  else  is  that  he  met  a  Miss 
Bnrt,  who  has  only  lived  here  a  short  time,  and 
to  whom  he  had  been  presented  a  night  or  two 
before.  He  asked  her  incidentally  if  she  knew 
Miss  Alice  Thornton ;  and,  when  she  said  she 
did  a  very  little,  he  asked  who  the  young  lady 
was  visiting  her.  Miss  Burt  said  she  never  had 
seen  her,  but  some  one  had  told  her  it  was  a 
young  lad}'  Miss  Thornton  had  met  at  boarding- 
school.  "Then  she  has  never  been  here  be 
fore?"  said  he.  And  Miss  Burt  thought  not, 
indeed  was  quite  sure,  as  she  never  had  heard  of 
me.  Isn't  it  a  pity  he  didn't  ask  some  one  who 
could  tell  him  all  about  me?  —  and  then  he  could 
know  whether  he  had  met  me,  of  course.' 

u  Now  Kitty,  in  that  same  letter,  confessed  to 
me  that  she  liked  Mr.  Bruce  better  than  any  one 
she  had  ever  seen,  which  alarmed  me  so  much 
that  I  remember  I  wrote  her  the  most  shocking 
scolding." 

And  here  Miss  Tennant  was  silent  for  a  little 
wThile,  and,  when  she  spoke,  said,  — 

"I  sec  by  3'our  faces  3'ou'rc  quite  interested; 
and  I  think  the  rest  of  the  story  cannot  be  better 


MR.  BRUCE.  133 

told  than  b}'  in}'  reading  3*00  some  of  the  letters 
Kitty  wrote  to  me  at  the  time.  I'd  like  to  look 
them  over  myself;  and,  if  you  are  not  in  the  least 
sleepy,  I  will  go  up  to  my  room  and  get  them." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  returned  ;  and  after  mak 
ing  the  gas  and  fire  a  little  brighter,  and  taking 
an  observation  on  the  state  of  the  weather,  she 
began  to  read  :  — 

"  BALTIMORE,  Friday. 

"My  forlorn  young  sister,  are  you  mourning  over  the 
inconstancy  of  woman  in  general,  and  your  sister  Kitty 
in  particular?  I  own  up  to  being  very  naughty,  and  on 
my  knees  I  ask  your  pardon  for  not  having  written  all 
these  days.  I  cannot  tell  you,  as  you  invariably  do  me, 
that  I  have  had  nothing  to  write;  for  my  time  has  been 
more  fully  occupied  than  usual.  Tuesday  night  was 
Miss  Carroll's  party ;  and  I  wasn't  home  till  —  really  not 
early,  but  late,  in  the  morning.  That  party  very  nearly 
made  me  late  to  breakfast.  Mr.  Davenport  was  my 
'  devotedest,'  and  has  called  since,  which  Alice  and  I 
think  very  remarkable.  My  dear  Meg,  he's  the  queerest 
man!  He  has  the  most  dejected  expression,  as  if  life 
were  the  most  terrible  bore.  One  would  think  he  had 
been  all  through  with  it  before,  and  didn't  enjoy  it  the 
first  time.  He  seems  to  have  an  exceedingly  well-de 
veloped  taste  for  grief,  and  talks  in  the  saddest  way 
about  things  in  general.  I  think  lately  his  object  in  life 
has  been  to  make  me  think  he  has  some  dreadful  hid 
den  sorrow.  I  know  he  hasn't,  by  his  way;  aiid  I  talk 


134  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

more  nonsense  to  him  in  an  hour  than  I  ever  did  to  any 
one  else  in  a  day.  I  cannot  help  '  taking  rises'  out  of 
him,  as  we  used  to  say  at  school.  But  lie  dances  well, 
and  knows  everything  apparently;  and  he  is  ever  so 
much  more  entertaining  to  me  than  the  people  who  are 
just  like  every  one  else.  Wednesday  he  sent  me  the 
most  exquisite  bouquet:  it  came  while  Alice  and  I  were 
out  walking.  It  was  raining  a  little;  but  we  were  tired 
of  the  house,  and  went  ever  so  far,  having  the  most  de 
lightful  talk.  You  ought  to  have  seen  Alice;  for  the 
mist  gave  her  more  color  than  usual,  and  she  looked  like 
a  beauty,  as  she  is.  Oh  how  I  want  you  to  know  her, 
Maggie!  I  never  have  said  a  word  hardly  about  the 
delightful  visit  I  am  having  here.  Alice's  mother,  you 
know,  died  so  long  ago  that  she  doesn't  remember  her  at 
all;  and  she  lived  with  her  aunt  till  she  was  old  enough 
for  school,  and  her  father  travelled  and  boarded.  Now 
he  has  taken  this  delightful  house,  and  she  is  mistress  of 
it.  How  she  knows  the  first  thing  about  housekeeping, 
I  cannot  imagine !  But  she  certainly  succeeds  admirably. 
There  never  was  a  girl  who  had  her  own  way  so  thor 
oughly:  but  her  wTay  is  always  very  sensible;  and, 
though  she  has  had  the  most  remarkable  chance  for  be 
coming  a  spoiled  child,  she  is  the  farthest  from  it. 
However,  I  will  not  expatiate.  Thursday  night  Mr. 
Thornton  gave  a  whist-party;  and — do  you  think!  one 
of  the  gentlemen  was  my  Mr.  Bruce.  I  dare  say  you 
are  making  the  most  awful  face,  Maggie,  but  I  will  tell 
you  about  him;  and  why  you  scold  me  so  I  cannot 
imagine,  for  I  think  it  is  very  exciting;  and  I  know 
there  is*  some  good  reason  for  his  conduct,  for  he  is  a 


MR.  BRUCE.  135 

perfect  gentleman,  every  one  says;  and  my  only  fear  is, 
that  I  shall  never  find  out  about  it.  I  am  constantly 
expecting  to  hear  he  is  gone:  I  heard  he  was  to  sail  last 
Monday  positively.  I  should  feel  horridly.  When 
Alice  and  I  found  Mr.  Thornton  had  invited  him,  we 
laid  a  bet  whether  he  would  accept ;  but  I  was  right. 
Mr.  Thornton's  invitations  are  seldom  refused;  but  I 
don't  think  that  was  his  motive.  I  won  the  bet.  Yes, 
lie  really  came,  and  that  wretch  of  an  Alice  had  the  au 
dacity  to  seat  us  side  by  side  at  supper.  He  was  per 
fectly  polite,  but  talked  very  little.  I  caught  him 
watching  me  ever  and  ever  so  many  times;  and  Alice 
declares  he  is  in  love  with  me.  I  wish  he  would  tell  me 
what  is  the  matter  with  me,  for  I  like  him  more  and 
more  ;  but  don't  tell  mamma.  I  have  scarcely  men 
tioned  him,  because  I  know  papa  would  tell  me  not  to 
take  any  notice  of  him,  —  and  I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  so 
nice  I  have  you  to  tell  about  him.  The  only  queer  thing 
that  happened  was,  in  the  course  of  the  supper  I  was 
saying  something  to  Mr.  Dent,  who  wras  on  my  left, 
about  Boston,  in  answer  to  some  question.  Mr.  Bruce 
said,  'Did  you  ever  live  in  Boston,  Miss  Tennant?' 
I  answered  that  our  family  had  always  lived  there,  and 
I  meant  to;  I  had  been  away  at  school,  however,  most 
of  the  time  for  four  years.  'Oh!'  said  he,  and  began 
to  ask  me  something  else,  and  stopped  suddenly.  I 
wish  he  had  gone  on,  though  perhaps  it  was  only  about 
some  Boston  people  whom  he  met  abroad.  He  never 
has  been  in  this  country  before,  you  know.  And  he 
went  on  talking  with  Mr.  Bowler,  who  sat  just  beyond 
him,  and  I  found  Mr.  Dent  was  talking  with  Mr.  Thorn- 


136  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

ton;  so  I  was  left  to  myself,  and  was  busy  for  a  while 
over  my  oysters.  I  listened  to  Mr.  Bowler  and  Mr. 
Bruce,  talking  about  Mr.  John  Keith's  marriage  with 
his  mother's  nursery-maid,  whom  he  had  very  sensibly 
fallen  in  love  with.  Mr.  Bowler  was  saying  that  he  had 
met  her,  and  that  she  was  remarkably  ladylike,  and  did 
her  teacher,  whoever  she  might  be,  great  credit,  Mr. 
Bruce  looked  up,  and  saw  I  was  listening,  — everybody 
has  been  interested  in  the  affair,  —  and  said,  '  Oh,  yes !  I 
have  known  several  instances  of  persons,  having  natu 
rally  a  great  deal  of  refinement,  being  taken  from  a  low 
position  when  quite  grown  up,  with  their  tastes  and 
habits  apparently  firmly  established;  and,  upon  their 
being  educated,  one  could  scarcely  tell  that  they  had  not 
always  been  used  to  the  society  they  were  in.'  He  ap 
pealed  to  me  to  know  if  I  had  not  known  such  cases.  I 
answered  that  I  never  had  seen  any  such  person  myself, 
but  that  I  had  not  the  least  doubt  of  its  being  possible. 
He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  and  then  said,  carelessly 
as  he  could,  'Of  course  you  haven't.'  And  it  seemed 
to  me  he  emphasized  the  'you'  just  the  least  bit.  One 
might  have  inferred  I  was  just  such  a  person  myself. 
My  dear  little  sister,  what  an  enormous  letter  this  is. 
Forgive  me  if  you  are  bored;  and  love  me  dearly,  as  I 
do  you.  Alice  sent  her  love  before  she  went  to  sleep, 
where  I  shall  follow  her  directly.  She  has  been  sweet 
ly  unconscious  of  the  perplexing  Mr.  Bruce  for  at  least 
an  hour.  I'll  tell  you  every  thing  else  that  has  hap 
pened  in  my  next  letter;  and  do  you  write  very  soon  to 
your  naughty  sister 

"KITTY." 


MR.  BRUCE.  137 

[In  the  next  three  or  four  letters,  there  is  hard 
ly  enough  mention  of  Mr.  Bruce  for  me  to  copy 
them  all  out.  He  seems  to  be  growing  more  and 
more  agreeable,  in  spite  of  his  evident  determina 
tion  to  the  contraiy ;  and  as  for  Miss  Kitt^y,  her 
letters  show  veiy  plainly  what  her  feelings  were 
toward  him ;  and  here  is  the  last  of  the  letters 
which  Miss  Margaret  Tennant  brought,  which 
explains  the  whole  matter,  to  the  great  satisfac 
tion  of  all  concerned  :  — ] 

"Maggy,  my  cross  young  sister,  —  I  declare,  I'm  mud 
dled,  as  the  chambermaid  used  to  say  at  school.  I 
have  fallen  into  a  chronic  state  of  laughter,  I'm  dying 
to  tell  Alice,  and  have  sent  for  her;  but  she  has  callers, 
and  I  will  begin  this  very  minute  to  tell  you.  It  is  the 
middle  of  the  morning,  but  I  am  just  down:  I  was  up 
very  late  last  night;  and  oh,  we  had  such  fun!  Just  to 
think  how  poor  Mr.  Bruce  and  I  have  puzzled  our 
brains  about  each  other!  It  is  all  out  now,  and  I'm  so 
greatly  relieved.  I  never  knew  how  much  I  cared  about 
it  till  now.  I  didn't  stop  to  date  my  letter,  but  to-day 
is  Thursday;  and  Monday  morning,  as  you  already 
know,  Aunt  Kate  came  home,  to  'my  great  delight, 
though  I  was  broken-hearted  to  leave  Alice's,  where  I 
have  had  such  a  charming  time.  Uncle  Rob's  mother 
is  very  much  better;  and  aunty  doesn't  think  she  will 
have  to  go  back,  and  says  I  must  finish  my  visit.  But 
I  cannot  stop  to  write  about  that.  I  came  back  here  in 


138  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

the  afternoon;  and,  Tuesday  morning,  who  should  ap 
pear  but  uncle  Rob  from  Savannah,  two  weeks  before 
we  expected  him.  That  night,  when  he  came  home  to 
dinner,  he  said  with  great  glee,  'Kate,  I  saw  young 
Bruce  down  town  to-day,  whom  I  met  in  London,  and 
liked  so  very  much.  1  have  invited  him  to  dine  with 
us  to-morrow.  He  is  a  capital  young  fellow;  and  I'm 
glad  we  have  this  young  niece  to  help  us  entertain  him. 
Have  you  never  met  him,  Kitty  ?  I'm  not  going  to  ask 
any  one  else,  so  I  can  have  him  all  to  myself.  I  want  to 
ask  him  about  my  friends  in  London ;  and  he  tells  me 
he  has  some  letters  and  messages  for  me,  with  which  he 
called  at  my  office,  probably  just  after  I  went  South.' 
So  he  rattled  on,  —  you  know  how  fast  he  talks,  —  and 
presently  Aunt  Kate  introduced  some  other  subject, 
and  I  wasn't  obliged  to  tell  the  state  of  affairs  between 
us.  I  supposed,  of  course,  Mr.  Bruce  would  treat  me  in 
a  proper  and  becoming  manner  in  my  uncle's  house; 
and  I  thought  —  which  thought  proved  true  —  that  he 
might  not  know  I  was  uncle's  niece;  and  that  it  might 
help  the  matter  a  little.  Oh,  it  is  too  funny,  Meg!  How 
you  will  laugh!  About  dinner-time  Mr.  Bruce  came  in 
with  Uncle  Rob,  and  he  looked  so  astonished  to  see  me 
there;  and  before  uncle  Rob  had  time  to  get  any  farther 
in  the  introduction  than  'Mr.  Bruce,'  he  said,  'Oh, 
yes!  I  have  met  Miss  Tennant  very  often.  Is  Miss 
Thornton  with  you?  '  Uncle  said,  '  Kitty,  why  haven't 
you  told  me?'  Mr.  Bruce  looked  more  surprised 
when  uncle  called  me  'Kitty;'  and,  after  that,  he  got 
more  and  more  involved,  as  he  saw  me  whisper  to 
aunty,  and  take  some  work  from  a  little  cabinet,  and 


MR.  BRUCE.  139 

act  as  if  I  belonged  here.  I  explained  to  Uncle  Eob 
that  he  had  talked  so  fast  the  night  before,  that  he 
didn't  give  me  time  to  say  I  knew  Mr.  Bruce.  We 
didn't  wait  long  for  dinner;  and  the  way  it  was  all  ex 
plained  was  by  my  saying,  '  Uncle  Rob,  if  you  please, 
I'll  have  some  pepper.'  Mr.  Bruce  started,  and  really 
was  pale.  He  looked  at  me  and  at  Uncle  Rob  and 
aunty.  I  never  saw  such  an  expression  on  any  one's 
face.  '  Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  what  may  seem  a  very 
impertinent  question?'  said  he,  'are  you  Mr.  Hunter's 
niece,  Miss  Tennant?'  —  '  Xo,'  I  answered,  'but  I'm 
Mrs.  Hunter's.'  —  'Oh!'  said  he,  'I'm  inexpressibly 
relieved:  and  yet  I'm  sure  it  was  you;  I  cannot  have 
been  mistaken.  There  never  could  be  another  person 
so  exactly  like  you,  and  I  remember  your  face  perfectly.' 
Here  he  blushed  furiously;  and,  I  regret  to  say,  I  did 
too.  'It's  a  dreadful  question  to  have  to  ask  Mrs.  Rob 
ert  Hunter's  niece,  and  I  beg  you  not  to  be  offended 
with  me;  but  was  it  you,  or  your  wraith,  who  waited 
upon  the  table  at  a  house  where  I  dined,  just  a  year 
ago,  in  Boston  ?  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  the 
name  was.  It  was  a  gentleman  to  whom  I  had  letters 
from  my  father,  who  had  some  business  with  him.  lie 
was  exceedingly  kind  to  me,  and  his  house  was  charm 
ing;  and  he  had  such  a  pretty  little  daughter,' —  hear 
that,  Meg! — 'and  I  have  remembered  the  table-girl 
ever  since.  It  cannot  have  been  you;  for  I  have  heard 
you  say  you  were  always  away  at  school,  except  in  the 
summer;  and  yet  I  am  so  sure  of  your  face  and  figure 
and  hair  and  every  thing  about  you,  only  you  have  lost 
a  strong  brogue  you  had  then.  Xot  you,  of  course,  but 


140  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

the  person  I  saw.  I  have  been  so  foolishly  sure  about 
it,  and  supposed  some  one  had  become  interested  in  you, 
as  I  was  at  the  time,'  — here  he  blushed  again,  —  '  and 
had  educated  you  where  you  met  Miss  Thornton,  and 
that  you  had  a  vast  deal  of  tact,  and  were  deluding 
her  and  her  friends.  I  have  treated  you  dreadfully, 
and  Miss  Alice  too ;  and  only  the  other  night  I  had  the 
most  supreme  contempt  for  you,  because  you  were  ap 
parently  so  innocent  concerning  young  women  being 
raised  above  their  station,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
It  would  come  over  me  once  in  a  while  that  you  could 
not  be  carrying  this  all  out,  and  I  didn't  believe  in  my 
previous  idea  at  all;  and  yet  the  face  is  the  same.  I  am 
as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever,'  said  the  poor  man  sol 
emnly. 

"  All  this  time  I  was  pinching  my  fingers  under  the 
table  to  keep  from  laughing;  but  when  he  stopped, 
looking  to  me  for  a  solution  of  all  his  troubles,  \vith 
that  ridiculously  perplexed  face,  and  I  saw  uncle  Rob's 
and  aunt  Kitty's  faces,  it  ivould  come,  and  I  fairly 
shrieked,  and  rushed  from  the  table  into  the  library, 
and  threw  myself  into  an  easy-chair;  and  I  truly  never 
laughed  so  in  my  life.  I  believe  I  had  hysterics  at  last, 
and  they  came  in  in  dismay.  Don't  you  know  what  it 
-was,  Margaret?  Don't  you  remember  the  day,  last 
Easter  vacation,  when  Ann  had  gone  down  to  Salem 
with  her  sister,  and  papa  had  four  strange  gentlemen  to 
dine  with  him,  and  I  put  on  one  of  Ann's  aprons,  and 
waited  on  tlu>  table  for  fun  ?  I  think  it  was  idiotic  in 
me  not  to  have  recognized  Mr.  Bruce  before.  Only 
think  how  much  it  would  have  saved  us!  He  was  the 


ME.  BRUCE.  141 

handsome  young  Englishman  who  went  to  the  drawing- 
rooin  with  you  and  mamma,  instead  of  the  library,  and 
then  went  away  early.  You  remember  all  about  him 
now,  don't  you  ?  I  went  back  to  the  dining-room,  and 
told  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to  end,  and  if  wo 
didn't  enjoy  ourselves  over  it!  Poor  uncle  Rob  made 
himself  ill  with  the  extent  of  his  laughter,  and  Mr. 
Bruce  and  I  are  the  best  of  friends.  Did  you  ever  know 
any  thing  funnier  to  happen  at  Mrs.  Walkintwo's  ? 
If  you  did,  do  write  me.  How  I  shall  enjoy  telling 
papa  and  mamma  !  There's  Alice  coming.  Good-by, 
my  dear.  But  wasn't  he  a  goose  ?  " 

"  Knowing,"  said  Miss  Margaret,  "•  that  Kitt}r 
has  been  Mrs.  Bruce  for  nearly  thirty  years,  you 
can  imagine  what  followed.  Mr.  Bruce  made 
full  amends  for  his  rudeness,  and  after  a  while  it 
came  to  their  having  long  walks  and  talks  to 
gether.  Uncle  Rob  approved  the  match  ;  and, 
when  it  was  time  for  her  to  come  home,  Mr. 
Bruce  wisely  concluded  to  sail  from  Boston,  and 
to  serve  as  escort  to  Aunt  Kate  and  Kitty.  So 
he  was  all  ready  to  ask  papa's  consent  when 
he  arrived,  and  it  was  readily  given.  He  became 
his  father's  American  partner,  and  they  were 
married  in  a  }*ear  or  so,  and  settled  down  in  the 
house  we  left  to-night ;  for  Kitty  was  always 
loyal  to  Boston,  like  the  true  Tennant  that  she 


142  OLD  FRIENDS  AND   NEW. 

is.  And  the}'  have  always  been  the  happiest 
couple  in  the  world,  and  Kitty's  little  personifica 
tion  of  the  absent  Ann  turned  out  more  happily 
than  her  reluctant  mamma  had  an}'  idea  of. 

"  And  now,"  said  Miss  Margaret,  "  the  storm 
and  the  story  are  both  over.  It's  nearly  twelve, 
and  the  fire  is  low.  Suppose  we  go  up  stairs." 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS. 

HOWEVER  sensible  it  may  have  been  con 
sidered  by  other  people,  it  certainly  was 
a  disagreeable  piece  of  news  to  Miss 
Sydney,  that  the  city  authorities  had  decided  to 
open  a  new  street  from  St.  Maiy  Street  to  Jeffer 
son.  It  seemed  a  most  unwarrantable  thing  to 
her  that  the}'  had  a  right  to  bu}'  her  property 
against  her  will.  It  was  so  provoking,  that,  after 
so  much  annoj'ance  from  the  noise  of  St.  Mary 
Street  during  the  last  dozen  }'ears,  she  must 
submit  to  having  another  public  thoroughfare  at 
the  side  of  her  house  also.  If  it  had  only  been 
at  the  other  side,  she  would  not  have  minded  it 
particularly ;  for  she  rarely  sat  in  her  drawing- 
room,  which  was  at  the  left  of  the  hall.  On  the 
right  was  the  library,  stately,  dismal,  and  apt  to 
be  musty  in  damp  weather ;  and  it  would  take 
many  bright  people,  and  a  blazing  wood-fire,  and 


144  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

a  great  deal  of  sunshine,  to  make  it  pleasant. 
Behind  this  was  the  dining-room,  which  was 
really  bright  and  sunny,  and  which  opened  by 
wide  glass  doors  into  a  conservator}*.  The  rattle 
and  clatter  of  St.  Maiy  Street  was  not  at  all 
troublesome  here  ;  and  by  little  and  little  Miss 
Sydne}'  had  gathered  her  favorite  possessions 
from  other  parts  of  the  house,  and  taken  one  end 
of  it  for  her  sitting-room.  The  most  comfortable 
chairs  had  found  their  wa}*  here,  and  a  luxurious 
great  sofa  which  had  once  been  in  the  libraiy,  as 
well  as  the  bookcase  which  held  her  favorite 
books. 

The  house  had  been  built  by  Miss  Sydney's 
grandfather,  and  in  his  day  it  had  seemed  nearhr 
out  of  the  city  :  now  there  was  only  one  other 
house  left  near  it ;  for  one  by  one  the  quiet,  aris 
tocratic  old  street  had  seen  its  residences  give 
place  to  shops  and  warehouses,  and  Miss  Sydney 
herself  had  scornfully  refused  man}*  offers  of 
many  thousand  dollars  for  her  home.  It  was  so 
changed  !  It  made  her  so  sad  to  think  of  the  dear 
old  times,  and  to  see  the  houses  torn  down,  or 
the  small-paned  windows  and  old-fashioned  front 
doors  replaced  with  French  plate-glass  to  display 
better  the  wares  which  were  to  take  the  places  of 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  145 

the  quaint  furniture  and  well-known  faces  of  her 
friends !  But  Miss  Sydney  was  an  old  woman, 
and  her  friends  had  diminished  sadly.  "It 
seems  to  me  that  my  invitations  are  all  for  fu 
nerals  in  these  days,"  said  she  to  her  venerable 
maid  Hannah,  who  had  helped  her  dress  for  her 
parties  fifty  years  before.  She  had  given  up 
society  little  by  little.  Her  friends  had  died,  or 
she  had  allowed  herself  to  drift  away  from  them, 
while  the  acquaintances  from  whom  she  might 
have  filled  their  places  were  only  acquaintances 
still.  She  was  the  last  of  her  own  family,  and, 
for  }*ears  before  her  father  died,  he  had  lived 
mainly  in  his  library,  avoiding  society  and  caring 
for  nothing  but  books  ;  and  this,  of  course,  was  a 
check  upon  his  daughter's  enjoyment  of  visitors. 
Being  left  to  herself,  she  finall}'  became  content 
with  her  own  societ}',  and  since  his  death,  which 
followed  a  long  illness,  she  had  refused  all  invi 
tations  ;  and  with  the  exception  of  the  inter 
change  of  occasional  ceremonious  calls  with  per 
haps  a  dozen  families,  and  her  pretty  constant 
attendance  at  church,  you  rarelj*  were  reminded 
of  her  existence.  And  I  must  tell  the  truth  :  it 
was  not  easy  to  be  intimate  with  her.  She 
was  a  good  woman  in  a  negative  kind  of  way. 


146  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

One  never  heard  of  an}'  thing  wrong  she  had 
done  ;  and  if  she  chose  to  live  alone,  and  have 
nothing  to  do  with  people,  why,  it  was  her  own 
affair.  You  never  seemed  to  know  her  any 
better  after  a  long  talk.  She  had  a  very  fine, 
courteous  way  of  receiving  her  guests,  —  a  way 
of  making  you  feel  at  your  ease  more  than  you 
imagined  you  should  when  with  her,  —  and  a 
stately  kind  of  tact  that  avoided  skilfully  much 
mention  of  personalities  on  either  side.  But  mere 
hospitality  is  not  attractive,  for  it  ma}'  be  given 
grudgingi}',  or,  as  in  her  case,  from  mere  habit ; 
for  Miss  Sydney  would  never  consciously  be  rude 
to  any  one  in  her  own  house  —  or  out  of  it,  for 
that  matter.  She  very  rarely  came  in  contact 
with  children ;  she  was  not  a  person  likely  to  be 
chosen  for  a  confidante  by  a  young  girl ;  she 
was  so  cold  and  reserved,  the  elder  ladies  said. 
She  never  asked  a  question  about  the  winter 
fashions,  except  of  her  dressmaker,  and  she  never 
met  with  reverses  in  housekeeping  affairs,  and 
these  two  facts  rendered  her  unsympathetic  to 
many.  She  was  fond  of  reading,  and  enjoyed 
heartily  the  pleasant  people  she  met  in  books. 
She  appreciated  their  good  qualities,  their  thought- 
fulness,  kindness,  wit,  or  sentiment ;  but  the 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  147 

thought  never  suggested  itself  to  her  mind  that 
there  were  living  people  not  far  away,  who  could 
give  her  all  this,  and  more. 

If  calling  were  not  a  regulation  of  society,  if 
one  only  went  to  see  the  persons  one  really  cared 
for,  I  am  afraid  Miss  Sydney  would  soon  have 
been  quite  forgotten.  Her  character  would 
puzzle  man}'  people.  She  put  no  visible  hinder- 
mice  in  your  way  ;  for  I  do  not  think  she  wras 
consciously  reserved  and  cold.  She  was  thor 
oughly  well-bred,  rich,  and  in  her  way  charitable  ; 
that  is,  she  gave  liberally  to. public  subscriptions 
which  came  under  her  notice,  and  to  church  con 
tributions.  But  she  got  on,  somehow,  without 
having  friends  ;  and,  though  the  loss  of  one  had 
always  been  a  real  grief,  she  learned  without 
much  trouble  the  way  of  living  the  lonely,  com 
fortable,  but  very  selfish  life,  and  the  way  of 
being  the  woman  I  have  tried  to  describe.  There 
were  occasional  days  when  she  was  tired  of  her 
self,  and  life  seemed  an  empty,  formal,  heartless 
discipline.  Her  wisest  acquaintances  pitied  her 
loneliness  ;  and  bus}',  unselfish  people  wondered 
how  she  could  be  deaf  to  the  teachings  of  her 
good  clergyman,  and  blind  to  all  the  chances  of 
usefulness  and  happiness  which  the  world  afforded 


148  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

her ;  and  others  still  envied  her,  and  wondered 
to  whom  she  meant  to  leave  all  her  money. 

I  began  by  telling  yon  of  the  new  street.  It 
was  suggested  that  it  should  bear  the  name  of 
Sydney ;  but  the  authorities  deeided  finally  to 
compliment  the  country's  chief  magistrate,  and 
call  it  Grant  Place.  Miss  Sydnc}'  did  not  like 
the  sound  of  it.  Her  family  had  always  been 
indifferent  to  politics,  and  indeed  the  kite  of  the 
&yclne3*s  had  flown  for  many  }'ears  high  above 
the  winds  that  affect  commonplace  people.  The 
new  way  from  Jefferson  Street  to  St.  Mary  wras  a 
great  convenience,  and  it  seemed  to  our  friend 
that  all  the  noisiest  vehicles  in  the  city  had  a 
preference  for  going  back  and  forth  under  her 
windows.  You  see  she  did  not  suspect,  what 
afterward  became  so  evident,  that  there  was  to 
be  a  way  opened  into  her  own  heart  also,  and 
that  she  should  confess  one  da}',  long  after,  that 
she  might  have  died  a  selfish  old  woman,  and  not 
have  left  one  sorry  face  behind  her,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  cutting  of  Grant  Place. 

The  side  of  her  conservatory  was  now  close 
upon  the  sidewalk,  and  this  certainly  was  not 
agreeable.  She  could  not  think  of  putting  on 
her  big  gardening-apron,  and  going  m  to  work 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  149 

among  her  dear  plants  any  more,  with  all  the 
world  staring  in  at  her  as  it  went  by.  John  the 
coachman,  who  had  charge  of  the  greenhouse,  was 
at  first  very  indignant ;  but,  after  he  found  that 
his  flowers  were  noticed  and  admired,  his  anger 
was  turned  into  an  ardent  desire  to  merit  admira 
tion,  and  he  kept  his  finest  plants  next  the  street. 
It  was  a  good  thing  for  the  greenhouse,  because 
it  had  never  been  so  carefully  tended  ;  and  plant 
after  plant  was  forced  into  luxuriant  foliage  and 
blossom.  He  and  Miss  Sydney  had  planned  at 
first  to  have  close  wire  screens  made  to  match 
those  in  the  dining-room ;  but  now,  when  she 
spoke  of  his  hurrying  the  workmen,  whom  she 
supposed  had  long  since  been  ordered  to  make 
them,  John  said,  "Indeed,  mum,  it  would  be 
the  ruin  of  the  plants  shutting  out  the  light ;  and 
they  would  all  be  rusted  with  the  showerings  I 
gives  them  every  da}-."  And  Miss  Sydney 
smiled,  and  said  no  more. 

The  street  was  opened  late  in  October,  and, 
soon  after,  cold  weather  began  in  real  earnest. 
Down  in  that  business  part  of  the  city  it  was  the 
strangest,  sweetest  surprise  to  come  suddenly 
upon  the  long  line  of  blooming  plants  and  tall 
green  lily-leaves  under  a  roof  festooned  with  roses 


150  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

and  trailing  vines.  For  the  first  two  or  three 
weeks,  almost  cveiybody  stopped,  if  only  for  a 
moment.  Few  of  Miss  Sydney's  own  friends 
even  had  ever  seen  her  greenhouse  ;  for  they  were 
almost  invariably  received  in  the  drawing-room. 
Gentlemen  stopped  the  thought  of  business 
affairs,  and  went  on  down  the  street  with  a 
fresher,  happier  feeling.  And  the  tired  shop 
girls  lingered  longest.  Many  a  man  and  woman 
thought  of  some  sick  person  to  whom  a  little 
handful  of  the  green  leaves  and  bright  blossoms, 
with  their  coolness  and  freshness,  would  bring  so 
much  happiness.  And  it  was  found,  long  months 
afterward,  that  a  young  man  had  been  turned 
back  from  a  plan  of  wicked  mischief  by  the  sight 
of  a  tall,  green  geranium,  like  one  that  bloomed 
in  his  mother's  sitting-room  way  up  in  the  coun- 
tiy.  He  had  not  thought,  for  a  long  time  before, 
of  the  dear  old  woman  who  supposed  her  son  was 
.turning  his  wits  to  good  account  in  the  city.  But 
Miss  Sydney  did  not  know  how  much  he  wished 
for  a  bit  to  put  in  his  buttonhole  when  she  indig 
nantly  went  back  to  the  dining-room  to  wait  until 
that  impertinent  fellow  stopped  staring  in. 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLO  WEES.  151 


II. 

IT  was  just  about  this  time  that  Mrs.  Marley 
made  a  change  in  her  place  of  business.  She  had 
sold  candy  round  the  corner  in  Jefferson  Street  for 
a  great  man}'  j'cars  ;  but  she  had  suffered  terribly 
from  rheumatism  all  the  winter  before.  She  was 
nicely  sheltered  from  too  much  sun  in  the  summer  ; 
but  the  north  winds  of  winter  blew  straight  to 
ward  her  ;  and  after  much  deliberation,  and  many 
fears  and  questionings  as  to  the  propriety  of  such 
an  act,  she  had  decided  to  find  another  stand. 
You  or  I  would  think  at  first  that  it  could  make 
no  possible  difference  where  she  sat  in  the  street 
with  her  goods  ;  but  in  fact  one  has  regular  cus 
tomers  in  that  business,  as  well  as  in  the  largest 
wholesale  enterprise.  There  was  some  uncer 
tainty  whether  these  friends  would  follow  her  if 
she  went  away.  Mrs.  Marley 's  specialty  was 
molasses-candy ;  and  I  am  sure,  if  3-011  ever 
chanced  to  eat  any  of  it,  you  would  look  out  for 
the  old  lady  next  time  you  went  along  the  street. 
Times  seemed  very  hard  this  winter.  Not  that 
trade  had  seriously  diminished  ;  but  still  the  out 
look  was  very  dark.  Mrs.  Marley  was  old,  and 


152  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

had  boon  so  for  some  years,  so  she  was  used  to 
that ;  but  somehow  this  fall  she  seemed  to  be 
growing  very  much  older  all  of  a  sudden.  She 
found  herself  very  tired  at  night,  and  she  was 
apt  to  lose  her  breath  if  she  moved  quickly  ;  be 
sides  this,  the  rheumatism  tortured  her.  She  had 
saved  only  a  few  dollars,  though  she  and  her 
sister  had  had  a  comfortable  living,  —  what  they 
had  considered  comfortable,  at  least,  though 
the}'  sometimes  had  been  hungry,  and  very  often 
cold.  They  would  surely  go  to  the  almshouse 
sooner  or  later,  —  she  and  her  lame  old  sister 
Polly. 

It  was  Polly  who  made  the  candy  which  Mrs. 
Marie}'  sold.  "Their  two  little  rooms  were  up 
three  flights  of  stairs  ;  and  Polly,  being  too  lame 
to  go  down  herself,  had  not  been  out  of  doors  in 
seven  years.  There  was  nothing  but  roofs  and 
sky  to  be  seen  from  the  windows  ;  and,  as  there 
was  a  manufactory  near,  the  sk}'  was  apt  to  be 
darkened  by  its  smoke.  Some  of  the  neighbors 
dried  their  clothes  on  the  roofs,  and  Polly  used  to 
be  very  familiar  with  the  apparel  of  the  old  resi 
dents,  and  exceedingly  interested  when  a  strange 
family  came,  and  she  saw  something  new.  There 
was  a  little  bright  pink  dress  that  the  trig  }'oung 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  153 

French  woman  opposite  used  to  hang  out  to  dry  ; 
and  somehow  poor  old  Polly  used  always  to  be 
brightened  and  cheered  by  the  sight  of  it.  Once 
in  a  while  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  child  who 
wore  it.  She  hardly  ever  thought  now  of  the  out 
side  world  when  left  to  herself,  and  on  the  whole 
she  was  not  discontented.  Sister  Becky  used  to 
have  a  great  deal  to  tell  her  sometimes  of  an 
evening.  When  Mrs.  Marley  told  her  in  the 
spring  twilight  that  the  grass  in  the  square  was 
growing  green,  and  that  she  had  heard  a  robin, 
it  used  to  make  Polly  feel  homesick  ;  for  she  was 
apt  to  think  much  of  her  childhood,  and  she  had 
been  born  in  the  country.  She  was  very  deaf, 
poor  soul,  and  h^r  world  was  a  very  forlorn  one. 
It  was  nearly  always  quite  silent,  it  was  very 
small  and  smoky  out  of  doors,  and  very  dark  and 
dismal  within.  Sometimes  it  was  a  hopeless 
world,  because  the  candy  burnt;  and  if  there  had 
not  been  her  Bible  and  Irymn-book,  and  a  lame 
pigeon  that  lit  on  the  window-sill  to  be  fed  ever}' 
morning,  Miss  Polly  would  have  found  her  time 
go  heavily. 

One  night  Mrs.  Marie}'  came  into  the  room 
with  a  cheerful  face,  and  said  very  loud,  "Polly, 
I've  got  some  news  I  "  Polly  knew  by  her  speak- 


154  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

ing  so  loud  that  she  was  in  good-humor.  When 
any  thing  discouraging  had  happened,  Becky 
spoke  low,  and  then  was  likely  to  be  irritated 
when  asked  to  repeat  her  remark. 

"  Dear  heart !  "  said  Mrs.  Marie}',  "  now  I  am 
glad  you  had  something  hot  for  supper.  I  was 
turning  over  in  my  mind  what  we  could  cook  up, 
for  I  feel  real  hollow.  It's  a  kind  of  chill}'  day." 
And  she  sat  down  by  the  stove,  while  Poll}'  hob 
bled  to  the  table,  with  one  hand  to  her  ear  to 
catch  the  first  sound  of  the  good  news,  and  the 
other  holding  some  baked  potatoes  in  her  apron. 
That  hand  was  twisted  with  rheumatism,  for  the 
disease  ran  in  the  family.  She  was  afraid  every 
day  that  she  should  have  to  give  up  making  the 
candy  on  the  next ;  for  it  hurt  her  so  to  use  it. 
She  was  continually  being  harrowed  In'  the  idea 
of  its  becoming  quite  useless,  and  that  the  candy 
might  not  be  so  good  ;  and  then  what  would  be 
come  of  them  ?  Becky  Marie}"  was  often  troubled 
by  the  same  thought.  Yet  they  were  almost  al 
ways  good-natured,  poor  old  women  ;  and,  though 
Polly  Sharpe's  pleasures  and  privileges  were  by 
far  the  fewest  of  anybody's  I  ever  knew,  I  think 
she  was  as  glad  in  those  days  to  know  the  dande 
lions  were  in  bloom  as  if  she  could  see  them  ;  and 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  155 

she  got  more  good  from  the  fragments  of  the 
Sunday-morning  sermon  that  sister  Beck}'  brought 
home  than  many  a  listener  did  from  the  whole 
service. 

The  potatoes  were  done  to  a  turn,  Mrs.  Marley 
shouted  ;  and  then  Polly  sat  down  close  by  her  to 
hear  the  news. 

"You  know  I  have  been  worrying  about  the 
cold  weather  a-coming,  and  my  rheumatics  ;  and 
I  was  afeared  to  change  my  stand,  on  account  of 
losing  custom.  Well,  to-day  it  all  come  over  me 
to  once  that  I  might  move  down  a  piece  on  Grant 
Place,  —  that  new  street  that's  cut  through  to  St. 
Mary.  I've  noticed  for  some  time  past  that  almost 
nil  my  reg'lar  customers  turns  down  that  wa}',  so 
this  morning  I  thought  I'd  step  down  that  way  too, 
and  see  if  there  was  a  chance.  And  after  I  gets 
into  the  street  I  sees  people  stopping  and  looking 
jit  something  as  the}'  went  along ;  and  so  I  goes 
down  to  see  ;  and  it  is  one  of  them  hothouses, 
lull  of  plants  a-growing  like  it  was  mid-summer. 
It  belongs  to  the  big  Sydne}'  house  on  the  corner. 
There's  a  good  place  to  sit  right  at  the  corner 
of  it,  and  I'm  going  to  move  over  there  to-mor 
row.  I  thought  as  how  I  wouldn't  leave  Jeffer 
son  Street  to-day,  for  it  was  too  sudden.  You 


156  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

see  folks  stops  and  looks  at  the  plants,  and  there 
wasn't  airy  wind  there  to-day.  There!  I  wish 
you  could  see  them  flowers." 

Sister  Polly  was  very  pleased,  and,  after  the 
potatoes  and  bread  were  eaten,  she  brought  on  an 
apple  pie  that  had  been  sent  up  b}'  Mrs.  Welch, 
the  washer-woman  who  lived  on  the  floor  next! 
but  one  below.  She  was  going  away  for  three  or 
four  days,  having  been  offered  good  pay  to  do 
some  cleaning  in  a  new  house,  and  her  board 
besides,  near  her  work.  So  you  see  that  evening 
was  quite  a  jubilee. 

The  next  da}'  Mrs.  Maiiey's  wildest  expecta 
tions  were  realized  ;  for  she  was  warm  as  toast 
the  whole  morning,  and  sold  all  her  cand}',  and 
went  home  by  two  o'clock.  That  had  never 
happened  but  once  or  twice  before.  "Why,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  we  could  lay  up  considerable 
this  winter,"  said  she  to  Polly. 

Miss  Sydne}'  did  not  like  the  idea  of  the  old 
candy-woman's  being  there.  Children  came  to 
buy  of  her,  and  the  street  seemed  noisier  than 
ever  at  times.  Perhaps  she  might  have  to  leave 
the  house,  after  all.  But  one  may  get  used  to 
almost  an}'  thing  ;  and  as  the  days  went  by  she 
was  surprised  to  find  that  she  was  not  half  so 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  157 

much  annoyed  as  at  first ;  and  one  afternoon  she 
found  herself  standing  at  one  of  the  dining-room 
windows,  and  watching  the  people  go  b}'.  I  do 
not  think  she  had  shown  so  much  interest  as  this 
in  the  world  at  large  for  many  years.  I  think  it 
must  have  been  from  noticing  the  pleasure  her 
flowers  gave  the  people  who  stopped  to  look  at 
them  that  she  began  to  think  herself  selfish,  and 
to  be  aware  how  completely  indifferent  she  had 
grown  to  an}'  claims  the  world  might  have  upon 
her.  And  one  morning,  when  she  heard  some 
body  sa}',  "Why,  it's  like  a  glimpse  into  the 
tropics !  Oh !  I  wish  I  could  have  such  a  con- 
servatoiy !  "  she  thought,  u  Here  I  have  kept 
this  all  to  myself  for  all  these  years,  when  so 
many  others  might  have  eiijoj'ed  it  too!"  But 
then  the  old  feeling  of  independence  came  over 
her.  The  greenhouse  was  out  of  people's  way  ; 
she  surely  couldn't  have  let  people  in  whom  she 
didn't  know  ;  however,  she  was  glad,  now  that 
the  street  was  cut,  that  some  one  had  more  pleas 
ure,  if  she  had  not.  After  all,  it  was  a  satisfac 
tion  to  our  friend  ;  and  from  this  time  the  seeds 
of  kindness  and  charity  and  helpfulness  began  to 
show  themselves  above  the  ground  in  the  almost 
empty  garden  of  her  heart.  I  will  tell  von  how 


158  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

the}'  grew  and  blossomed ;  and  as  strangers 
came  to  see  her  real  flowers,  and  to  look  in  at  the 
conservatory  windows  from  the  cold  city  street, 
instead  of  winter  to  see  a  bit  of  imprisoned  sum 
mer,  so  friend  after  friend  came  to  find  there 
was  another  garden  in  her  own  heart,  and  Miss 
Sydne}'  learned  the  blessedness  there  is  in  loving 
and  giving  and  helping. 

For  it  is  sure  we  never  shall  know  what  it  is 
to  lack  friends,  if  we  keep  our  hearts  ready  to 
receive  them.  If  we  are  growing  good  and  kind 
and  helpful,  those  who  wish  for  help  and  kind 
ness  will  surely  find  us  out.  A  tree  covered  with 
good  fruit  is  never  unnoticed  in  the  fields.  If  we 
bear  thorns  and  briers,  we  can't  expect  people  to 
take  veiy  great  pains  to  come  and  gather  them. 
It  is  thought  by  many  persons  to  be  not  only  a 
bad  plan,  but  an  ill-bred  thing,  to  give  out  to 
more  than  a  few  carefully  selected  friends.  But 
it  came  to  her  more  and  more  that  there  was 
great  selfishness  and  short-sightedness  in  this. 
One  naturally  has  a  horror  of  dragging  the 
secrets  and  treasures  of  one's  heart  and  thought 
out  to  the  light  of  day.  One  ma}'  be  willing  to 
go  without  the  good  that  ma}-  come  to  one's  o\vu 
self  through  main'  friendships  ;  but,  after  all,  God 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  159 

does  not  teach  us,  and  train  our  lives,  only  that 
we  ma}'  come  to  something  ourselves.  He  helps 
men  most  through  other  men's  lives  ;  and  we  must 
take  from  him,  and  give  out  again,  all  we  can, 
wherever  we  can,  remembering  that  the  great 
God  is  always  trying  to  be  the  friend  of  the  least 
of  us.  The  danger  is,  that  we  oftenest  give  our 
friendship  selfishl}' ;  we  do  not  think  of  our 
friends,  but  of  ourselves.  One  never  can  find 
one's  self  beggared  ;  love  is  a  treasure  that  does 
not  lessen,  but  grows,  as  we  spend  it. 

The  passers-b}*  seemed  so  delighted  with  some 
new  plants  which  she  and  John  had  arranged  one 
day,  that,  as  she  wras  going  out  in  the  afternoon  to 
drive,  she  stopped  just  as  she  was  going  to  step 
into  the  carriage,  and  said  she  thought  she  would 
go  round  and  look  at  the  conservatory  from  the 
outside.  So  John  turned  the  horses,  and  fol 
lowed.  It  was  a  very  cold  day,  and  there  were 
few  people  in  the  street.  Eveiy  thing  was  so 
cheerless  out  of  doors,  and  the  flowers  looked  so 
summer-like !  No  wonder  the  people  liked  to 
stop,  poor  souls  !  For  the  richer,  more  comfor 
table  ones  lived  farther  up  town.  It  was  not  in 
the  shopping  region  ;  and,  except  the  business 
men  who  went  by  morning  and  evening,  almost 
every  one  was  poor. 


160  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

Miss  Sj'dney  had  never  known  what  the  cancty- 
woman  sold  before,  for  she  could  not  see  any 
thing  but  the  top  of  her  rusty  black  bonnet  from 
the  window.  But  now  she  saw  that  the  candy 
was  exactly  like  that  she  and  her  sister  used  to 
buy  years  upon  years  ago  ;  and  she  stopped  to 
speak  to  the  old  woman,  and  to  buy  some,  to  the 
utter  amazement  of  her  coachman.  Mrs.  MarlejT 
was  excited  by  so  grand  a  customer,  and  was  a 
great  while  counting  out  the  drumsticks,  and 
wrapping  them  up.  While  Miss  S}'dney  stood 
there,  a  thin,  pitiful  little  girl  came  along,  cany- 
ing  a  clumsy  balrv.  They  stopped,  and  the  baby 
tried  to  reach  down  for  a  piece.  The  girl  was 
quite  as  wistful ;  but  she  pulled  him  back,  and 
walked  on  to  the  flowers.  "  Oh  !  pitty,  pitty  !  " 
said  the  baby,  while  the  dirty  little  hands  patted 
the  glass  delightedly. 

"  Move  along  there,"  said  John  gruffly  ;  for  it 
was  his  business  to  keep  that  glass  clean  and 
bright. 

The  girl  looked  round,  frightened,  and,  seeing 
that  the  coachman  was  big  and  cross-looking,  the 
forlorn  little  soul  went  away.  "Baby  want  to 
walk?  You're  so  heavy  !  "  said  she  in  a  fretful, 
tired  way.  But  the  baby  was  half  crying,  and 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  161 

held  her  tight.  He  had  meant  to  stay  some  time 
longer,  and  look  at  those  pretty,  bright  things, 
since  he  could  not  have  the  candy. 

Mrs.  Marley  felt  as  if  her  customer  might 
think  her  stingy,  and  proceeded  to  explain  that 
she  couldn't  think  of  giving  her  candy  away. 
4-  Bless  yon,  ma'am,  I  wouldn't  have  a  stick  left 
by  nine  o'clock." 

Miss  Sydney  "  never  gave  money  to  street- 
beggars."  But  these  children  had  not  begged, 
and  somehow  she  pitied  them  very  much,  they 
looked  so  hungry.  And  she  called  them  back. 
There  was  a  queer  tone  to  her  voice  ;  and  she 
nearly  cried  after  she  had  given  the  package  of 
candy  to  them,  and  thrown  a  dollar  upon  the 
board  in  front  of  Mrs.  Marie}',  and  found  herself 
in  the  carriage,  driving  away.  Had  she  been  very 
sill}'?  and  what  could  John  have  thought?  But 
the  children  were  so  glad  ;  and  the  old  candy- 
woman  had  said,  "God  bless  you,  mum !  " 

After  this,  Miss  Sydney  could  not  keep  up  her 
old  interest  in  her  own  affairs.  She  felt  restless 
and  dissatisfied,  and  wondered  how  she  could 
have  done  the  same  things  over  and  over  so  con 
tentedly  for  so  many  years.  You  ma}'  be  sure, 
that,  if  Grant  Place  had  been  unthought  of,  she 


162  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

would  have  lived  on  in  the  same  fashion  to  the 
end  of  her  days.  But  after  this  she  used  to  look 
out  of  the  window  ;  and  she  sat  a  great  deal  in 
thcsconservatoiy,  when  it  was  not  too  warm  there, 
behind  some  tall  callas.  The  servants  found  her 
usually  standing  in  the  dining-room ;  for  she 
listened  for  footsteps,  and  was  half-ashamed  to 
have  them  notice  that  she  had  changed  in  the 
least.  We  are  all  given  to  foolish  behavior  of 
this  kind  once  in  a  while.  We  are  often  re 
strained  because  we  feel  bound  to  conform  to 
people's  idea  of  us.  We  must  be  such  persons 
as  we  imagine  our  friends  think  us  to  be.  They 
believe  that  we  have  made  up  our  minds  about 
them,  and  are  apt  to  show  us  only  that  behavior 
which  the}'  think  we  expect.  The}'  are  afraid  of 
us  sometimes.  They  think  we  cannot  sj'mpathize 
with  them.  Our  friend  felt  almost  as  if  she  were 
yielding  to  some  sin  in  this  strange  interest  in  the 
passers-b}'.  She  had  lived  so  monotonous  a  life, 
that  any  change  could  not  have  failed  to  be  some 
what  alarming.  She  told  Bessie  Thorne  after 
ward,  that  one  day  she  came  upon  that  verse  of 
Keble's  Hymn  for  St.  Matthew's  Day.  Do  you 
remember  it  ?  — 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  163 

"  There  are,  in  this  loud,  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime, 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  everlasting  chime; 
Who  carry  music  in  their  heart 
Through  dusky  lane  and  wrangling  mart, 

Plying  their  daily  task  with  busier  feet 

Because  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain  repeat." 

It  seemed  as  if  it  were  a  message  to  herself, 
and  she  could  not  help  going  to  the  window  a  few 
minutes  afterward.  The  faces  were  mostly  tired- 
looking  and  dissatisfied.  Some  people  looked 
ver}'  eager  and  hurried,  but  none  very  contented. 
It  was  the  literal  daily  bread  they  thought  of; 
and,  when  two  fashionably-dressed  ladies  chanced 
to  go  by  the  window,  their  faces  were  strangely 
like  their  poorer  neighbors  in  expression.  Miss 
Sydney  wondered  what  the  love  for  one's  neigh 
bor  could  be  ;  if  she  could  ever  feel  it  herself. 
She  did  not  even  like  these  people  whom  she 
watched,  and  yet  eveiy  da\',  for  years  and  years, 
she  had  acknowledged  them  her  brothers  and 
sisters  when  she  said,  "Our  Father  who  art  in 
heaven." 

It  seemed  as  if  Miss  Sydney,  of  all  people, 
might  have  been  independent  and  unfettered.  It 
is  so  much  harder  for  us  who  belong  to  a  family, 


164  OLD  FRIEXDS  AND  NEW. 

for  we  are  hindered  by  the  thought  of  people's 
noticing  our  attempts  at  reform.  It  is  like  sur 
rendering  some  opinion  ignominiously  which  we 
have  fought  for.  It  is  a  kind  of  "giving  in." 
But  when  she  had  acknowledged  to  herself  that 
she  had  been  in  the  wrong,  that  she  was  a  selfish, 
thoughtless  old  woman,  that  she  was  alone,  with 
out  friends,  and  it  had  been  her  own  fault,  she 
was  puzzled  to  know  how  to  do  better.  She 
could  not  begin  to  be  very  charitable  all  at  once. 
The  more  she  realized  what  her  own  character 
had  become,  the  more  hopeless  and  necessary 
seemed  reform. 

Such  times  as  this  come  to  many  of  us,  both  in 
knowing  ourselves  and  our  friends.  An  awaken 
ing,  one  might  call  it,  —  an  opening  of  the  blind 
eyes  of  our  spiritual  selves.  And  our  ears  are 
open  to  some  of  the  voices  which  call  us  ;  while 
others  might  as  well  be  silent,  for  all  the  heed 
we  give  them.  We  go  on,  from  day  to  da}',  doing, 
with  more  or  less  faithfulness,  that  part  of  our 
work  we  have  wit  enough  to  comprehend  ;  but 
one  day  suddenly  we  are  shown  a  broader  field, 
stretching  out  into  the  distance,  and  know  that 
from  this  also  we  ma}'  bring  in  a  harvest  by  and 
by,  and  with  God's  help. 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  165 

Miss  S}'dney  meant  to  be  better,  —  not  alone 
for  the  sake  of  having  friends,  not  alone  to  quiet 
her  conscience,  but  because  she  knew  she  had 
been  so  far  from  living  a  Christian  life,  and  she 
was  bitterly  ashamed.  This  was  all  she  needed, 
— -all  any  of  us  need, — to  know  that  we  must 
be  better  men  and  women  for  God's  sake  ;  that 
we  cannot  be  better  without  his  help,  and  that 
his  help  ma}"  be  had  for  the  asking.  But  where 
should  she  begin?  She  had  always  treated  her 
servants  kindly,  and  they  were  the  people  she 
knew  best.  She  would  surely  try  to  be  more  in 
terested  in  the  friends  she  met ;  but  it  was  nearly 
Christmas  time,  and  people  rarely  came  to  call. 
Every  one  was  busy.  Becky  Marley's  cheery 
face  haunted  her ;  and  one  day  after  having 
looked  down  from  the  window  on  the  top  of  her 
bonnet,  she  remembered  that  she  did  not  get  any 
candy,  after  all,  and  she  would  go  round  to  see 
the  old  lady  again,  she  looked  poor,  and  she 
would  give  her  some  money.  Miss  Sydney 
dressed  herself  for  the  street,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  her  very  carefully,  as  if  she  were 
a  mischievous  child,  running  away.  It  was  very 
cold,  and  there  were  hardly  a  dozen  persons  to 
be  seen  in  the  streets,  and  Mrs.  Marley  had 
evidently  been  crying. 


166  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

"  I  should  like  some  of  your  candy,"  said  our 
friend.  "  You  know  I  didn't  take  an}',  after 
all,  the  other  day."  And  then  she  felt  very 
conscious  and  awkward,  fearing  that  the  candy- 
woman  thought  she  wished  to  remind  her  of  her 
generosity. 

"Two  of  the  large  packages,  if  3-011  please. 
But,  dear  me  !  aren't  you  very  cold,  sitting  here 
in  the  wind?"  and  Miss  Sydney  shivered,  in 
spite  of  her  warm  wrappings. 

It  was  the  look  of  sympathy  that  was  answered 
first,  for  it  was  more  comforting  than  even  the 
prospect  of  mone}*,  sorely  as  Mrs.  Marley  needed 
that. 

"Yes,  mum,  I've  had  the  rheumatics  this 
winter  awful.  But  the  wind  here! — win*,  it 
ain't  nothing  to  what  it  blows  round  in  Jeffer 
son  Street,  where  I  used  to  sit.  I  shouldn't  be 
out  to-day,  but  I  was  called  upon  sudden  to  pay 
my  molasses  bill,  when  I'd  just  paid  my  rent ; 
and  I  don't  know  how  ever  I  can.  There's  sister 
Polly  —  she's  dead  lame  and  deaf.  Is'pose  we'll 
both  be  in  the  almshouse  afore  spring.  I'm  an 
old  woman  to  be  earning  a  living  out  o'  doors  in 
winter  weather." 

There  was  no    mistaking   the    fact   that   Miss 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  167 

Sydney  was  in  earnest  when  she  said,  "I'm  so 
sorry  !  Can't  I  help  you  ?  " 

Somehow  she  did  not  feel  so  awkward,  and  she 
enjoyed  very  much  hearing  this  bit  of  confidence. 

"But  my  trade  has  improved  wonderful  since 
I  came  here.  People  mostly  stops  to  see  them 
beautiful  flowers  ;  and  then  they  sees  me,  and 
stops  and  buys  something.  Well,  there's  some 
days  when  I  gets  down-hearted,  and  I  just  looks 
up  there,  and  sees  them  flowers  blooming  so 
cheerful,  and  I  says,  i  There !  this  world  ain't 
all  cold  and  poor  and  old,  like  I  be  ;  and  the 
Lord  he  ain't  never  tired  of  us,  with  our  worry 
ing  about  what  he's  a-doing  with  us  ;  and  heaven's 
a-coming  before  long  anyhow !  '  And  the 

Widow  Marley  stopped  to  dry  her  eyes  with  the 
corner  of  her  shawl. 

Miss  Sydney  asked  her  to  go  round  to  the 
kitchen,  and  warm  herself;  and,  on  finding  out 
more  of  her  new  acquaintance's  difficulties,  she 
sent  her  home  happy,  with  money  enough  to  pay 
the  dreaded  bill,  and  a  basket  of  good  things 
which  furnished  such  a  supper  for  herself  and 
sister  Poll}'  as  they  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time. 
And  their  fortunes  were  bettered  from  that  day. 
"If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  flowers,  I  should  ha' 


168  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

been  freezing  my  old  bones  on  Jefferson  Street 
this  minute,  I  s'pose,"  said  the  Widow  Marlej'. 

Miss  Sydney  went  back  to  the  dining-room 
after  her  protegee  had  gone,  and  felt  a  comfortable 
sense  of  satisfaction  in  what  she  had  done.  It 
had  all  come  about  in  such  an  easy  way  too  !  A 
little  later  she  went  into  the  conservatory,  and 
worked  among  her  plants.  She  really  felt  so 
much  younger  and  happier;  and  once,  as  she 
stood  still,  looking  at  some  lilies-of-the-valley 
that  John  had  been  forcing  into  bloom,  she  did 
not  notice  that  a  young  lady  was  looking  through 
the  window  at  her  very  earnestly. 


III. 


THAT  same  evening  Mrs.  Thorne  and  Bessie 
were  sitting  up  late  in  their  library.  It  was 
snowing  very  fast,  and  had  been  since  three 
o'clock ;  and  no  one  had  called.  The}'  had 
begun  the  evening  by  reading  and  writing,  and 
now  were  ending  it  with  a  talk. 

"Mamma,"  said  Bessie,  after  there  had  been 
a  pause,  "  whom  do  }'ou  suppose  I  have  taken  a 
fancy  to  ?  And  do  you  know,  I  pity  her  so  much  ! 
—  Miss  Sydney." 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  169 

"But  I  don't  know  that  she  is  so  much  to 
be  pitied,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  smiling  at  the 
enthusiastic  tone.  "  She  must  have  every  thing 
she  wants.  She  lives  all  alone,  and  hasn't  any 
intimate  friends,  but,  if  a  person  chooses  such  a 
life,  why,  what  can  we  do?  What  made  you 
think  of  her?  " 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  think  of  one  real  friend 
she  has.  Everybody  is  polite  enough  to  her, 
and  I  never  heard  that  any  one  disliked  her  ;  but 
she  must  be  forlorn  sometimes.  I  came  through 
that  new  street  by  her  house  to-da}* :  that's  how 
I  happened  to  think  of  her.  Her  greenhouse  is 
perfectly  beautiful,  and  I  stopped  to  look  in.  I 
always  supposed  she  was  cold  as  ice  (I'm  sure 
she  looks  so)  ;  but  she  was  standing  out  in  one 
corner,  looking  down  at  some  flowers  with  just 
the  sweetest  face.  Perhaps  she  is  shy.  She 
used  to  be  veiy  good-natured  to  me  when  I  was 
a  child,  and  used  to  go  there  with  you.  I  don't 
think  she  knows  me  since  I  came  home :  at  any 
rate,  I  mean  to  go  to  see  her  some  da}r." 

"  I  certainly  would,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne.  "  She 
will  be  perfectly  polite  to  }'ou,  at  all  events.  And 
perhaps  she  may  be  lonely,  though  I  rather  doubt 
it ;  not  that  I  wish  to  discourage  you,  my  dear. 


170  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

I  haven't  seen  her  in  a  long  time,  for  we  have 
missed  each  other's  calls.  She  never  went  into 
society  much ;  but  she  used  to  be  a  very  elegant 
woman,  and  is  now,  for  that  matter." 

"I  pity  her,"  said  Bessie  persistently.  "I 
think  I  should  be  very  fond  of  her  if  she  would 
let  me.  She  looked  so  kind  as  she  stood  among 
the  flowers  to-day  !  I  wonder  what  she  was  think 
ing  about.  Oh  !  do  you  think  she  would  mind  if 
I  asked  her  to  give  me  some  flowers  for  the  hos 
pital?" 

Bessie  Thorne  is  a  very  dear  girl.  Miss  S}*d- 
ney  must  have  been  hard-hearted  if  she  had 
received  her  coldly  one  afternoon  a  few  days 
afterward,  she  seemed  so  refreshingly  young 
and  girlish  a  guest  as  she  rose  to  meet  the  mis 
tress  of  that  solemn,  old-fashioned  drawing-room. 
Miss  S3'dne}'  had  had  a  re-action  from  the  pleasure 
her  charity  had  given  her,  and  was  feeling  bewil 
dered,  unhappy,  and  old  that  day.  "What  can 
she  wish  to  see  me  for,  I  wonder?  "  thought  she, 
as  she  closed  her  book,  and  looked  at  Miss 
Thome's  card  herself,  to  be  sure  the  servant  had 
read  it  right.  But,  when  she  saw  the  girl  her 
self,  her  pleasure  showed  itself  unmistakably  in 
her  face. 


MISS  SYL>y£Y'S  FLOWERS.  171 

"  Are  you  really  glad  to  see  me?  "  said  Bessie 
in  her  frankest  way,  with  a  very  gratified  smile. 
'  •  I  was  afraid  you  might  think  it  was  very  odd 
in  me  to  come.  I  used  to  like  so  much  to  call 
upon  3*ou  with  mamma  when  I  was  a  little  girl ! 
And  the  other  day  I  saw  you  in  your  conserva 
tory,  and  I  have  wished  to  come  and  see  you  ever 
since." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear,"  said 
Miss  Sydney,  for  the  second  time.  u  I  have  been 
quite  forgotten  by  the  young  people  of  late  years. 
I  was  sorry  to  miss  Mrs.  Thome's  call.  Is  she 
quite  well?  I  meant  to  return  it  one  day  this 
week,  and  I  thought  only  last  night  I  would  ask 
about  you.  You  have  been  abroad,  I  think?  " 

Was  not  this  an  auspicious  beginning  ?  I  can 
not  tell  you  all  that  happened  that  afternoon,  for 
I  have  told  so  long  a  story  already.  But  you 
will  imagine  it  was  the  beginning  of  an  intimacy 
that  gave  great  pleasure,  and  did  great  good,  to 
both  the  elder  woman  and  the  younger.  It  is 
hard  to  tell  the  pleasure  which  the  love  and 
friendship  of  a  fresh,  bright  girl  like  Bessie 
Thome,  ma}'  give  an  older  person.  There  is  such 
a  satisfaction  in  being  convinced  that  one  is  still 
interesting  and  still  lovable,  though  the  years 


172  OLD  FRIENDS  AX  I)  NEW. 

that  are  gone  have  each  kept  some  gift  or  grace, 
and  the  possibilities  of  life  seem  to  have  been 
realized  and  decided.  There  are  days  of  our  old 
age  when  there  seems  so  little  left  in  life,  that 
living  is  a  mere  formality.  This  busy  world 
seems  done  with  the  old,  however  dear  their 
memories  of  it,  however  strong  their  claims  upon 
it.  They  are  old  :  their  life  now  is  only  waiting 
and  resting.  It  ma}'  be  quite  right  that  we  some 
times  speak  of  second  childhood,  because  we 
must  be  children  before  we  are  grown  ;  and  the 
life  to  come  must  find  us,  will  find  us,  ready  for 
service.  Our  old  people  have  lived  in  the  world 
so  long ;  they  think  the\'  know  it  so  well :  but 
the  young  man  is  master  of  the  trade  of  living, 
and  the  old  man  only  his  blundering  apprentice. 

Miss  Sydne3''s  solemnest  and  most  unprepared 
servant  was  startled  to  find  Bessie  Thome  and 
his  mistress  sitting  cosily  together  before  the 
dining-room  fire.  Bessie  had  a  paper  full  of  cut 
flowers  to  leave  at  the  Children's  Hospital  on 
her  wa}'  home.  Miss  S3"dney  had  given  liberally 
to  the  contribution  for  that  object ;  but  she  never 
had  suspected  how  interesting  it  was  until  Bessie 
told  her,  and  she  said  she  should  like  to  go 
some  day,  and  see  the  building  and  its  occupants 


MISS  SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  173 

for  herself.  And  the  girl  told  her  of  other  inter 
ests  that  were  near  her  kind  young  heart,  —  not 
all  charitable  interests,  —  and  they  parted  inti 
mate  friends. 

kt  I  never  felt  such  a  charming  certaint}'  of  being 
agreeable,"  wrote  Bessie  that  night  to  a  friend  of 
hers.  "  She  seemed  so  interested  in  everything, 
and,  as  I  told  you,  so  pleased  with  my  coming  to 
see  her.  I  have  promised  to  go  there  very  often. 
She  told  me  in  the  saddest  way  that  she  had  been 
feeling  so  old  and  useless  and  friendless,  and  she 
was  veiy  confidential.  Imagine  her  being  confi 
dential  with  me  !  She  seemed  to  me  just  like 
myself  as  I  was  last  year,  —  you  remember,  — 
just  beginning  to  realize  what  life  ought  to  be, 
and  trying,  in  a  frightened,  blind  kind  of  wa}',  to 
be  good  and  useful.  She  said  she  was  just  begin 
ning  to  understand  her  selfishness.  She  told  me 
I  had  done  her  ever  so  much  good  ;  and  I  couldn't 
help  the  tears  coming  into  my  e}'es.  I  wished  so 
much  you  were  there,  or  some  one  who  could  help 
her  more  ;  but  I  suppose  God  knew  when  he  sent 
me.  Doesn't  it  seem  strange  that  an  old  woman 
should  talk  to  me  in  this  way,  and  come  to  me 
for  help?  I  am  afraid  people  would  laugh  at  the 
very  idea.  And  only  to  think  of  her  living  on 


174  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

and  on,  year  after  }'ear,  and  then  being  changed 
so !  She  kissed  me  when  I  came  away,  and  I 
carried  the  flowers  to  the  hospital.  I  shall  always 
be  fond  of  that  conservatory,  because,  if  I  hadn't 
stopped  to  look  in  that  day,  I  might  never  have 
thought  of  her. 

"  There  was  one  strange  thing  happened,  which 
I  must  tell  }'ou  about,  though  it  is  so  late.  She 
has  grown  very  much  interested  in  an  old  candy- 
woman,  and  told  me  about  her ;  and  do  you  know 
that  this  evening  uncle  Jack  came  in,  and  asked 
if  we  knew  of  am'body  who  would  do  for  jam- 
tress —  at  the  Natural  Histoiy  rooms,  I  think  he 
said.  There  is  good  pay,  and  she  would  just  sell 
catalogues,  and  look  after  things  a  little.  Of 
course  the  candy-woman  ma}r  not  be  competent ; 
but,  from  what  Miss  Sydney  told  me,  I  think  she 
is  just  the  person." 

The  next  Sunday  the  minister  read  this  extract 
from  "  Queen's  Gardens  ' '  in  his  sermon.  Two  of 
his  listeners  never  had  half  understood  its  mean 
ing  before  as  the}'  did  then.  Bessie  was  in  church, 
and  Miss  Sydney  suddenly  turned  her  head,  and 
smiled  at  her  young  friend,  to  the  great  amaze 
ment  of  the  people  who  sat  in  the  pews  near  by. 
What  could  have  come  over  Miss  Svdnev? 


SYDNEY'S  FLOWERS.  175 

4i  The  path  of  a  good  woman  is  strewn  with 
flowers;  but  they  rise  behind  her  steps,  not  be 
fore  them.  '  Her  feet  have  touched  the  meadow, 
and  left  the  daisies  rosy.'  Flowers  flourish  in 
the  garden  of  one  who  loves  them.  A  pleasant 
magic  it  would  be  if  3*011  could  flush  flowers  into 
brighter  bloom  by  a  kind  look  upon  them ;  nay, 
more,  if  a  look  had  the  power  not  only  to  cheer, 
but  to  guard  them.  This  you  would  think  a 
great  thing?  And  do  3*011  think  it  not  a  greater 
thing  that  all  this,  and  more  than  this,  you  can 
do  for  fairer  flowers  than  these,  —  flowers  that 
could  bless  you  for  having  blessed  them,  and  will 
love  you  for  having  loved  them,  —  flowers  that 
have  eyes  like  yours,  and  thoughts  like  yours,  and 
lives  like  yours  ?  ' ' 


LADY  FERRY. 


|E  have  an  instinctive  fear  of  death  ;  }'et 
we  have  a  horror  of  a  life  prolonged  far 
beyond  the  average  limit :   it  is  sorrow 
ful  ;  it  is  pitiful ;  it  has  no  attractions. 

This  world  is  only  a  schoolroom  for  the  larger 
life  of  the  next.  Some  leave  it  early,  and  some 
late  :  some  linger  long  after  they  seem  to  have 
learned  all  its  lessons.  This  world  is  no  heaven  : 
its  pleasures  do  not  last  even  through  our  little 
lifetimes. 

There  are  many  fables  of  endless  life,  which  in 
all  ages  have  caught  the  attention  of  men ;  AVC 
are  familiar  with  the  stories  of  the  old  patriarchs 
who  lived  their  hundreds  of  years  :  but  one  thinks 
of  them  wearily,  and  without  envy. 


When  I  was  a  child,  it  was  necessary  that  1113' 
father  and  mother  should  take  a  long  sea- voyage. 
176 


LADY  FERRY.  177 

I  never  had  been  separated  from  them  before  ; 
but  at  this  time  they  thought  it  best  to  leave  me 
behind,  as  I  was  not  strong,  and  the  life  on 
board  ship  did  not  suit  me.  When  I  was  told  of 
this  decision,  I  was  very  sorry,  and  at  once 
thought  I  should  be  miserable  without  my  mother  ; 
besides,  I  pitied  myself  exceedingly  for  losing  the 
sights  I  had  hoped  to  see  in  the  country  which 
the}'  were  to  visit.  I  had  an  uncontrollable  dislike 
to  being  sent  to  school,  having  in  some  way  been 
frightened  by  a  maid  of  my  mother's,  who  had 
put  many  ideas  and  aversions  into  my  head  which 
I  was  man}r  years  in  outgrowing.  Having  dreaded 
this  possibility,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  know  that 
I  was  not  to  be  sent  to  school  at  all,  but  to  be  put 
under  the  charge  of  two  elderlv  cousins  of  my 
father,  —  a  gentleman  and  his  wife  whom  I  had 
once  seen,  and  liked  dearly.  I  knew  that  their 
home  was  at  a  fine  old-fashioned  country-place, 
far  from  town,  and  close  beside  a  river,  and  I  was 
pleased  with  this  prospect,  and  at  once  began  to 
make  charming  plans  for  the  new  life. 

I  had  lived  alwa}'S  with  grown  people,  and  sel 
dom  had  had  any  thing  to  do  with  children.  I 
was  very  small  for  my  age,  and  a  strange  mix 
ture  of  childishness  and  maturity  ;  and,  having  the 


178  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

appearance  of  being  absorbed  in  my  own  affairs, 
no  one  ever  noticed  me  much,  or  seemed  to  think 
it  better  that  I  should  not  listen  to  the  conversa 
tion.  In  spite  of  considerable  curiosity,  I  fol 
lowed  an  instinct  which  directed  me  never  to  ask 
questions  at  these  times :  so  I  often  heard  stray 
sentences  which  puzzled  me,  and  which  really 
would  have  been  made  simple  and  commonplace 
at  once,  if  I  had  only  asked  their  meaning.  I  was, 
for  the  most  of  the  time,  in  a  world  of  1113-  own.  I 
had  a  great  deal  of  imagination,  and  was  always 
telling  nvysclf  stories  ;  and  my  mind  was  adrift 
in  these  so  much,  that  my  real  absent-mindedness 
•was  mistaken  for  childish  unconcern.  Yet  I  was  a 
thoroughly  simple,  unaffected  child.  My  dreams 
and  thonghtfulness  gave  me  a  certain  tact  and  per 
ception  unusual  in  a  child  ;  but  my  pleasures  were 
as  deep  in  simple  things  as  heart  could  wish. 

It  happened  that  our  cousin  Matthew  was  to 
come  to  the  city  on  business  the  week  that  the 
ship  was  to  sail,  and  that  I  could  stay  with  my 
father  and  mother  to  the  very  last  day,  and  then 
go  home  with  him.  This  was  much  pleasanter 
than  leaving  sooner  under  the  care  of  an  utter 
stranger,  as  was  at  first  planned.  My  cousin 
Agnes  wrote  a  kind  letter  about  my  coming, 


LADY  FERRY.  170 

which  seemed  to  give  her  much  pleasure.  She 
remembered  me  very  well,  and  sent  me  a  message 
which  made  me  feel  of  consequence  ;  and  I  was 
delighted  with  the  plan  of  making  her  so  long  a 
visit. 

One  evening  I  was  reading  a  stoiy-book,  and 
I  heard  my  father  say  in  an  undertone,  "How 
long  has  madam  been  at  the  ferry  this  last  time  ? 
Eight  or  ten  3'ears,  has  she  not?  I  suppose  she 
is  there  yet?  "  —  "  Oh,  yes  !  "  said  my  mother, 
"  or  Agnes  would  have  told  us.  She  spoke  of 
her  in  the  last  letter  you  had,  while  we  were  in 
Sweden." 

i  fc  I  should  think  she  would  be  glad  to  have  a 
home  at  last,  after  her  3'ears  of  wandering  about. 
Not  that  I  should  be  surprised  now  to  hear  that 
she  had  disappeared  again.  When  I  was  sta}*- 
ing  there  while  I  was  }'oung,  we  thought  she 
had  drowned  herself,  and  even  had  the  men 
search  for  her  along  the  shore  of  the  river ;  but 
after  a  time  cousin  Matthew  heard  of  her  alive 
and  well  in  Salem  ;  and  I  believe  she  appeared 
again  this  last  time  as  suddenly  as  she  went 
away." 

"•  I  suppose  she  will  never  die,"  said  my  moth 
er  gravely.  "She  must  be  terribly  old,"  said 


180  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

nry  father.  "When  I  saw  her  last,  she  had 
scarcely  changed  at  all  from  the  way  she  looked 
when  I  was  a  boj*.  She  is  even  more  quiet  and 
gentle  than  she  used  to  be.  There  is  no  danger 
that  the  child  will  have  any  fear  of  her ;  do  you 
think  so?"  — "Oh,  no!  but  I  thin]-  I  will  tell 
her  that  madam  is  a  vciy  old  woman,  and  that  I 
hope  she  will  be  veiy  kind,  and  try  not  to  annoy 
her ;  and  that  she  must  not  be  frightened  at  her 
strange  notions.  I  doubt  if  she  knows  what 
craziness  is."  — "•  She  would  be  wise  if  she  could 
define  it,"  said  my  father  with  a  smile.  "Per 
haps  we  had  better  say  nothing  about  the  old 
lady.  It  is  probable  that  she  stays  altogether  in 
her  own  room,  and  that  the  child  will  rarely  see 
her.  I  never  have  realized  until  lately  the  horror 
of  such  a  long  life  as  hers,  living  on  and  on,  with 
one's  friends  gone  long  ago  :  such  an  endless  life 
in  this  world!  " 

Then  there  was  a  irrysterious  old  person  living 
at  the  ferry,  and  there  was  a  question  whether  I 
would  not  be  "  afraid  "  of  her.  She  "had  not 
changed"  since  1113- father  was  a  boy:  "it  was 
horrible  to  have  one's  life  endless  in  this 
world  !  ' ' 

The  days  went  quickly  by.     My  mother,  who 


LADY  FERRY.  181 

was  somewhat  of  an  invalid,  grew  sad  as  the  time 
drew  near  for  saying  good-by  to  me,  and  was 
more  tender  and  kind  than  ever  before,  and  more 
indulgent  of  every  wish  and  fancy  of  mine.  We 
had  been  together  all  1113-  life,  and  now  it  was  to 
be  long  months  before  she  could  possibly  see  my 
face  again,  and  perhaps  she  was  leaving  me  for 
ever.  Her  time  was  all  spent,  I  believe,  in 
thoughts  for  me,  and  in  making  arrangements  for 
my  comfort.  I  did  see  my  mother  again  ;  but  the 
tears  fill  my  eyes  when  I  think  how  dear  we 
became  to  each  other  before  that  first  parting,  and 
with  what  a  lingering,  loving  touch,  she  herself 
packed  my  boxes,  and  made  sure,  over  and  over 
again,  that  I  had  whatever  I  should  need  ;  and 
I  remember  how  close  she  used  to  hold  me  when  I 
sat  in  her  lap  in  the  evening,  saying  that  she  was 
afraid  I  should  have  grown  too  large  to  be  held 
when  she  came  back  again.  We  had  more  to  say 
to  each  other  than  ever  before,  and  I  think,  until 
then,  that  nyy  mother  never  had  suspected  how 
much  I  observed  of  life  and  of  older  people  in 
a  certain  way  ;  that  I  was  something  more  than  a 
little  child  who  went  from  one  interest  to  another 
carelessly.  I  have  known  since  that  my  moth 
er's  childhood  was  much  like  mine.  She,  how- 


182  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

ever,  was  timid,  while  I  had  inherited  from  my 
father  his  fearlessness,  and  lack  of  suspicion  ;  and 
these  qualities,  like  a  fresh  wind,  swept  away  any 
cobwebs  of  nervous  anticipation  and  sensitive 
ness.  Eveiy  one  was  kind  to  me,  parti}*,  I  think, 
because  I  interfered  with  no  one.  I  was  glad  of 
the  kindness,  and,  with  my  unsuspected  dreaming 
and  my  happy  childishness,  I  had  gone  through 
life  with  almost  perfect  contentment,  until  this 
pain  of  my  first  real  loneliness  came  into  my 
heart. 

It  was  a  day's  journey  to  cousin  Matthew's 
house,  mostly  by  rail ;  though,  toward  the  end, 
we  had  to  travel  a  considerable  distance  by  stage, 
and  at  last  were  left  on  the  river-bank  opposite 
my  new  home,  and  I  saw  a  boat  waiting  to  take 
us  across.  It  wras  just  at  sunset,  and  I  remem 
ber  wondering  if  my  father  and  mother  were 
out  of  sight  of  land,  and  if  they  were  watch 
ing  the  sky ;  if  my  father  would  remember  that 
only  the  evening  before  we  had  gone  out  for  a 
walk  together,  and  there  had  been  a  sunset  so 
much  like  this.  It  somehow  seemed  long  ago. 
Cousin  Matthew  was  bus}*  talking  with  the  ferry 
man  ;  and  indeed  he  had  found  acquaintances  at 
almost  every  part  of  the  journey,  and  had  not 


LADY  FERRY.  183 

been  much  with  me,  though  he  was  kind  and 
attentive  in  his  courteous,  old-fashioned  way, 
treating  me  with  the  same  ceremonious  politeness 
which  he  had  shown  1113-  mother.  He  pointed  out 
the  house  to  me  :  it  was  but  a  little  wa}'  from  the 
edge  of  the  river.  It  was  very  large  and  irregu 
lar,  with  great  white  chimne3's ;  and,  while  the 
river  was  all  in  shadow,  the  upper  windows  of 
two  high  gables  were  catching  the  last  red  glow 
of  the  sun.  On  the  opposite  side  of  a  green 
from  the  house  were  the  farm-house  and  build 
ings  ;  and  the  green  sloped  down  to  the  water, 
where  there  was  a  wharf  and  an  ancient-looking 
storehouse.  There  were  some  old  boats  and  long 
sticks  of  timber  tying  on  the  shore  ;  and  I  saw  a 
flock  of  white  geese  march  solemnly  up  toward 
the  barns.  From  the  open  green  I  could  see 
that  a  road  went  up  the  hill  beyond.  The  trees 
in  the  garden  and  orchard  were  the  richest  green  ; 
their  round  tops  were  clustered  thick  together ; 
and  there  were  some  romyal  great  elms  near  the 
house.  The  fiery  red  faded  from  the  high  win 
dows  as  we  came  near  the  shore,  and  cousin 
Agnes  was  ready  to  meet  me  ;  and  when  she  put 
her  arms  round  me  as  kindly  as  my  mother  would 
have  done,  and  kissed  me  twice  in  my  father's 


184  OLD  FR1EXDS  AND  NEW. 

fashion,  ^  was  sure  that  I  loved  her,  and  would 
be  contented.  Her  hair  was  very  gray  ;  but  she 
did  not  look,  after  all,  so  very  old.  Her  face  was 
a  grave  one,  as  if  she  had  had  many  cares  ;  }Tet 
they  had  all  made  her  stronger,  and  there  had 
been  some  sweetness,  and  something  to  be  glad 
about,  and  to  thank  God  for,  in  every  sorrow. 
I  had  a  feeling  always  that  she  was  my  sure 
defence  and  guard.  I  was  safe  and  comfortable 
with  her :  it  was  the  same  feeling  which  one 
learns  to  have  toward  God  more  and  more,  as 
one  grows  older. 

We  went  in  through  a  wide  hall,  and  up  stairs, 
through  a  long  passage,  to  my  room,  which  was 
in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  gables.  Two  windows 
looked  on  the  garden  and  the  river :  another 
looked  across  to  the  other  gable,  and  into  the 
square,  grass}'  court  between.  It  was  a  ram 
bling,  great  house,  and  seemed  like  some  English 
houses  I  had  seen.  It  would  be  great  fun  to 
go  into  all  the  rooms  some  day  soon. 

"  How  much  you  are  like  your  father!"  said 
cousin  Agnes,  stooping  to  kiss  me  again,  with 
her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  I  had  a  sudden  con 
sciousness  of  my  braveiy  in  having  behaved  so 
well  all  day ;  then  I  remembered  that  my  father 


LADY  FERRY.  185 

and  mother  were  at  every  instant  being  carried 
farther  and  farther  away.  I  could  almost  hear 
the  waves  dash  about  the  ship  ;  and  I  could  not 
help  crying  a  little.  "Poor  little  girl!"  said 
cousin  Agnes  :  "  I  am  very  sorry."  And  she  sat 
down,  and  took  me  in  her  lap  for  a  few  minutes. 
She  was  tall,  and  held  me  so  comfortably,  and 
I  soon  was  almost  happy  again  ;  for  she  hoped  I 
would  not  be  lonely  with  her,  and  that  I  would 
not  think  she  was  a  stranger,  for  she  had  known 
and  loved  my  father  so  well ;  and  it  would  make 
cousin  Matthew  so  disappointed  and  uneas}'  if  I 
were  discontented  ;  and  would  I  like  some  bread 
and  milk  with  1113-  supper,  in  the  same  blue  china 
bowl,  with  the  dragon  on  it,  which  1113-  father 
used  to  have  when  he  was  a  bo}'?  These  argu 
ments  were  by  no  means  lost  upon  me,  and  I 
was  ready  to  smile  presently  ;  and  then  we  went 
down  to  the  dining-room,  which  had  some  solemn- 
looking  portraits  on  the  walls,  and  heav}',  stiff 
furniture  ;  and  there  was  an  old-fashioned  woman 
standing  read}'  to  wait,  whom  cousin  Agnes  called 
Deborah,  and  who  smiled  at  me  graciously. 

Cousin  Matthew  talked  with  his  wife  for  a 
time  about  what  had  happened  to  him  and  to 
her  during  his  absence  ;  and  then  he  said,  "  And 


186  OLD  FRIEXDS  AND  NEW. 

how  is  madam  to-day?  you  have  not  spoken  of 
her."  — ;i  She  is  not  so  well  as  usual."  said 
cousin  Agnes.  "  She  has  had  one  of  her  sorrowful 
times  since  you  went  away.  I  have  sat  with  her 
for  several  hours  to-day ;  but  she  has  hardly 
spoken  to  me."  And  then  cousin  Matthew 
looked  at  me,  and  cousin  Agnes  hesitated  for 
a  minute.  Deborah  had  left  the  room. 

"  AVc  speak  of  a  member  of  our  family  whom 
you  have  not  seen,  although  3-011  may  have  heard 
your  father  speak  of  her.  She  is  called  Lady 
Ferry  by  most  people  who  know  of  her  ;  but  you 
ma}'  say  madam  when  you  speak  to  her.  She  is 
very  old,  and  her  mind  wanders,  so  that  she  has 
man}*  strange  fancies ;  but  you  must  not  be 
afraid,  for  she  is  very  gentle  and  harmless.  She 
is  not  used  to  children  ;  but  I  know  you  will  not 
annoy  her,  and  I  dare  say  you  can  give  her 
much  pleasure."  This  was  all  that  was  said  ;  but 
I  wished  to  know  more.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
there  was  a  reserve  about  this  person,  and  the 
old  house  itself  was  the  very  place  for  a  mystery. 
As  I  went  through  some  of  the  other  rooms  with 
cousin  Agnes  in  the  summer  twilight,  I  half 
expected  to  meet  Lad}-  Ferry  in  every  shadowy 
corner ;  but  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  a  question. 


LADY  FERRY.  187 

My  father's  words  came  to  me, —  "Such  an 
endless  life,"  and  "living  on  and  on."  And 
why  had  he  and  my  mother  never  spoken  to 
me  afterward  of  my  seeing  her?  They  had 
talked  about  it  again,  perhaps,  and  did  not 
mean  to  tell  me,  after  all. 

1  saw  something  of  the  house  that  night,  the 
great  kitchen,  with  its  huge  fireplace,  and  other 
rooms  up  stairs  and  down ;  and  cousin  Agnes 
told  me,  that  by  daylight  I  should  go  every 
where,  except  to  Madam's  rooms :  I  must  wait 
for  an  invitation  there. 

The  house  had  been  built  a  hundred  and  fifty 
3'ears  before,  by  Colonel  Haverford,  an  English 
man,  whom  no  one  knew  much  about,  except  that 
he  lived  like  a  prince,  and  would  never  tell  his 
history.  He  and  his  sons  died ;  and  after  the 
Involution  the  house  was  used  for  a  tavern  for 
many  years,  —  the  Ferry  Tavern,  —  and  the  place 
was  busy  enough.  Then  there  was  a  bridge  built 
down  the  river,  and  the  old  ferry  fell  into  disuse  ; 
and  the  owner  of  the  house  died,  and  his  family 
also  died,  or  went  awa}* ;  and  then  the  old  place, 
for  a  long  time,  was  either  vacant,  or  in  the  hands 
of  different  owners.  It  was  going  to  ruin  at 
length,  when  cousin  Matthew  bought  it,  and  came 


188  OLD   FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

there  from  the  city  to  live  3rears  before.  lie  was 
a  strange  man ;  indeed,  I  know  now  that  all  the 
possessors  of  the  Ferry  farm  must  have  been 
strange  men.  One  often  hears  of  the  influence 
of  climate  upon  character ;  there  is  a  strong 
influence  of  place ;  and  the  inanimate  things 
which  surround  us  indoors  and  out  make  ns 
follow  out  in  our  lives  their  own  silent  char 
acteristics.  We  unconsciously  catch  the  tone 
of  every  house  in  which  we  live,  and  of  every 
view  of  the  outward,  material  world  which  grows 
familiar  to  us,  and  we  are  influenced  b}*  surround 
ings  nearer  and  closer  still  than  the  climate  or 
the  country  which  we  inhabit.  At  the  old  Ilav- 
erford  house  it  was  nrysteiy  which  one  felt  when 
one  entered  the  door ;  and  when  one  came 
awa}r,  after  cordialit}',  and  days  of  sunshine 
and  pleasant  hospitalit}',  it  was  still  with  a 
sense  of  this  n^stery,  and  of  something  unseen 
and  unexplained.  Not  that  there  wras  any  thing- 
covered  and  hidden  necessarily  ;  but  it  was  the 
quiet  undertone  in  the  house  which  had  grown  to 
be  so  old,  and  had  known  the  magnificent  living 
of  Colonel  Ilaverford's  time,  and  afterward  the 
struggles  of  poor  gentlemen  and  women,  who 
had  hardly  warmed  its  walls  with  their  pitiful 


LADY  FERRY.  189 

fires,  and  shivering,  hungry  lives  ;  then  the  long 
procession  of  travellers  who  had  been  sheltered 
there  in  its  old  tavern  days ;  finally,  my  cousin 
Matthew  and  his  wife,  who  had  made  it  their 
.home,  when,  with  all  their  fortune,  they  felt 
empty-handed,  and  as  if  their  lives  were  ended, 
because  their  only  son  had  died.  Here  they  had 
learned  to  be  happy  again  in  a  quiet  sort  of 
wa}',  and  had  become  older  and  serener,  loving 
this  lovable  place  by  the  river,  and  keepers  of 
its  secret  —  whatever  that  might  be. 

I  was  wide  awake  that  first  evening :  I  was 
afraid  of  being  sent  to  bed,  and,  to  show  cousin 
Agnes  that  I  was  not  sleep}*,  I  chattered  far  more 
than  usual.  It  was  warm,  and  the  windows  of 
the  parlor  where  we  sat  looked  upon  the  garden. 
The  moon  had  risen,  and  it  was  light  out  of  doors. 
I  caught  every  now  and  then  the  faint  smell  of 
honeysuckle,  and  presently  I  asked  if  I  might 
go  into  the  garden  a  while ;  and  cousin  Agnes 
gave  me  leave,  adding  that  I  must  soon  go  to 
bed,  else  I  would  be  very  tired  next  day.  She 
noticed  that  I  looked  grave,  and  said  that  I  must 
not  dread  being  alone  in  the  strange  room,  for  it 
was  so  near  her  own.  This  was  a  great  consola 
tion  ;  and  after  I  had  been  told  that  the  tide  was 


190  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

in,  and  I  must  be  careful  not  to  go  too  near  the 
river  wall,  I  went  out  through  the  tall  glass  door, 
and  slowly  down  the  wide  garden-walk,  from 
which  now  and  then  narrower  walks  branched  off 
at  right  angles.  It  was  the  pride  of  the  place, 
this  garden  ;  and  the  box-borders  especially  were 
kept  with  great  care.  The}'  had  partly  been 
trimmed  that  day ;  and  the  evening  dampness 
brought  out  the  faint,  solemn  odor  of  the  leaves, 
which  I  never  have  noticed  since  without  think 
ing  of  that  night.  The  roses  were  in  bloom,  and 
the  snowball-bushes  were  startling!}-  white,  and 
there  was  a  long  border  filled  with  lilies-of-the- 
valle}'.  The  other  flowers  of  the  season  were  all 
there  and  in  blossom ;  yet  I  could  see  none  well 
but  the  white  ones,  which  looked  like  bits  of  snow 
and  ice  in  the  summer  shadows,  —  ghostly  flowers 
which  one  could  see  at  night. 

It  was  still  in  the  garden,  except  once  I  heard 
a  bird  twitter  sleepily,  and  once  or  twice  a  breeze 
came  across  the  river,  rustling  the  leaves  a  little. 
The  small-paned  windows  glistened  in  the  moon 
light,  and  seemed  like  the  e}'es  of  the  house 
watching  me,  the  unknown  new-comer. 

For  a  wrhile  I  wandered  about,  exploring  the 
different  paths,  some  of  which  were  arched  over 


LADY  FERRY.  191 

by  the  tall  lilacs,  or  by  arbors  where  the  grape- 
leaves  did  not  seem  fully  grown.  I  wondered  if 
my  mother  would  miss  me.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  I  should  have  seen  her  only  that  morning ; 
and  suddenly  I  had  a  consciousness  that  she  was 
thinking  of  me,  and  she  seemed  so  close  to  me, 
that  it  would  not  be  strange  if  she  could  hear 
Avhat  I  said.  And  I  called  her  twice  softly  ;  but 
the  sound  of  my  unanswered  voice  frightened  me. 
I  saw  some  round  white  flowers  at  my  feet,  look 
ing  up  mockingly.  The  smell  of  the  earth  and 
the  new  grass  seemed  to  smother  me.  I  was 
afraid  to  be  there  all  alone  in  the  wide  open  air ; 
and  all  the  tall  bushes  that  were  so  still  around 
me  took  strange  shapes,  and  seemed  to  be  alive. 
I  was  so  terribly  far  away  from  the  mother  whom 
1  had  called  ;  the  pleasure  of  1113*  journey,  and  my 
coming  to  cousin  Agnes,  faded  from  my  mind, 
and  that  indescribable  feeling  of  hopelessness 
and  dread,  and  of  having  made  an  irreparable 
mistake,  came  in  its  place.  The  thorns  of  a 
straying  slender  branch  of  a  rose-bush  caught 
my  sleeve  maliciously  as  I  turned  to  hurry  away, 
and  then  I  caught  sight  of  a  person  in  the  path 
just  before  me.  It  was  such  a  relief  to  see  some 
one,  that  I  was  not  frightened  when  I  saw  that  it 
must  be  Lady  Ferry. 


192  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

She  was  bent,  but  veiy  tall  and  slender,  and 
was  walking  slowly  with  a  cane.  Her  head  was 
covered  with  a  great  hood  or  wrapping  of  some 
kind,  which  she  pushed  back  when  she  saw  me. 
Some  faint  whitish  figures  on  her  dress  looked 
like  frost  in  the  moonlight ;  and  the  dress  itself 
was  made  of  some  strange  stiff  silk,  which  rustled 
softly  like  dry  rushes  and  grasses  in  the  autumn, 
—  a  rustling  noise  that  carries  a  chill  with  it. 
She  came  close  to  me,  a  sorrowful  little  figure 
veiy  dreaiy  at  heart,  standing  still  as  the  flowers 
themselves  ;  and  for  several  minutes  she  did  not 
speak,  but  watched  me,  until  I  began  to  be  afraid 
of  her.  Then  she  held  out  her  hand,  which  trem 
bled  as  if  it  were  trying  to  shake  off  its  rings. 
"My  dear,"  said  she  "I  bid  you  welcome:  I 
have  known  your  father.  I  was  told  of  your 
coming.  Perhaps  3-011  will  walk  with  me  ?  I  did 
not  think  to  find  you  here  alone."  There  was  a 
fascinating  sweetness  in  Madam's  A'oice,  and  I  at 
once  turned  to  walk  beside  her,  holding  her  hand 
fast,  and  keeping  pace  with  her  feeble  steps. 
"Then  you  are  not  afraid  of  me?"  asked  the 
old  lady,  with  a  strange  quiver  in  her  voice. 
"It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  a  child." 
"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  you.  I  was 


LADY  FERRY.  193 

frightened  before  I  saw  you,  because  I  was  all 
alone,  and  I  wished  I  could  see  my  father  and 
mother;  "  and  I  hung  my  head  so  that  nry  new 
friend  could  not  see  the  tears  in  my  e}'es,  for  she 
watched  me  curiously.  "  All  alone  :  that  is  like 
me,"  said  she  to  herself.  "  All  alone?  a  child  is 
not  all  alone,  but  there  is  no  one  like  me.  I 
am  something  alone  :  there  is  nothing  else  of  my 
fashion,  a  creature  who  lives  forever  !  "  and  Lad}' 
Ferry  sighed  pitifully.  Did  she  mean  that  she 
never  was  going  to  die  like  other  people  ?  But 
she  was  silent,  and  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  for  any 
explanation  as  we  walked  back  and  forward. 
Her  fingers  kept  moving  round  my  wrist,  smooth 
ing  it  as  if  she  liked  to  feel  it,  and  to  keep  my 
hand  in  hers.  It  seemed  to  give  her  pleasure  to 
have  me  with  her,  and  I  felt  quite  at  my  ease 
presently,  and  began  to  talk  a  little,  assuring  her 
that  I  did  not  mind  having  taken  the  journey  of 
that  da}'.  I  had  taken  some  long  journe}~s :  I 
had  been  to  China  once,  and  it  took  a  great  while 
to  get  there  ;  but  London  was  the  nicest  place  I 
had  ever  seen ;  had  Lady  Ferry  ever  been  in 
London  ?  And  I  was  surprised  to  hear  her  say 
drearily  that  she  had  been  in  London ;  she  had 
been  everywhere. 


194  OLD   FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

' c  Did  you  go  to  Westminster  Abbe}-  ?  "  I 
asked,  going  on  with  the  conversation  childishly. 
1 '  And  did  you  see  where  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots  are  buried?  Mamma  had 
told  me  all  about  them." 

"  Buried,  did  you  say?  Are  they  dead  too?  " 
asked  Madam  eagerly.  "  Yes,  indeed  !  "  said  I : 
"  they  have  been  dead  a  long  time."  —  "  Ah  !  I 
had  forgotten,"  answered  my  strange  companion. 
4 ;  Do  you  know  of  an}'  one  else  who  has  died 
beside  them?  I  have  not  heard  of  any  one's 
dying  and  going  home  for  so  long  !  Once  every 
one  died  but  me  —  except  some  3'oung  people  ; 
and  I  do  not  know  them."  —"Why,  even*  one 
must  die,"  said  I  wonderingly.  "There  is  a 
funeral  somewhere  every  day,  I  suppose."  — 
"Every  one  but  me,"  Madam  repeated  sadlv, 
—  "  every  one  but  me,  and  I  am  alone." 

Just  now  cousin  Agnes  came  to  the  door,  and 
called  me.  "Go  in  now,  child,"  said  Lady 
Feriy.  "  You  may  come  and  sit  with  me  to 
morrow  if  you  choose."  And  I  said  good-night, 
while  she  turned,  and  went  down  the  walk  with 
feeble,  lingering  steps.  She  paced  to  and  fro, 
as  I  often  saw  her  afterwards,  on  the  flag-stones  ; 
and  some  bats  flew  that  way  like  ragged  bits  of 


LADY  FERRY  195 

darkness,  holding  somehow  a  spark  of  life.  I 
watched  her  for  a  minute  :  she  was  like  a  ghost, 
I  thought,  but  not  a  fearful  ghost,  —  poor  Lady 
Feriy ! 

"Have  }'ou  had  a  pleasant  walk?"  asked 
cousin  Matthew  politel}*.  "  To-morrow  I  will 
give  y.ou  a  border  for  your  own,  and  some  plants 
for  it,  if  you  like  gardening. ' '  I  jo}'fully  answered 
that  I  should  like  it  very  much,  and  so  I  began  to 
feel  already  the  pleasure  of  being  in  a  real  home, 
after  the  wandering  life  to  which  I  had  become 
used.  I  went  close  to  cousin  Agnes's  chair  to 
tell  her  confidentially  that  I  had  been  wralking 
with  Madam  in  the  garden,  and  she  was  very 
good  to  me,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  sit  with 
her  the  next  day ;  but  she  said  veiy  odd  things. 

"You  must  not  mind  what  she  saj's,"  said 
cousin  Agnes  ;  "  and  I  would  never  dispute  with 
her,  or  even  seem  surprised,  if  I  were  you.  It 
hurts  and  anno}Ts  her,  and  she  soon  forgets  her 
strange  fancies.  I  think  you  seem  a  very  sensible 
little  girl,  and  I  have  told  you  about  this  poor 
friend  of  ours  as  if  you  were  older.  But  you 
understand,  do  you  not?  "  And  then  she  kissed 
me  good-night,  and  I  went  up  stairs,  contented 
with  her  assurance  that  she  would  come  to  me 
before  I  went  to  sleep. 


196  07,7;   FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

I  found  a  pleasant-faced  3'oung  girl  busy  put 
ting  away  some  of  1113'  clothing.  I  had  seen  her 
just  after  supper,  and  had  fancied  her  very  much, 
partly  because  she  was  not  so  old  as  the  rest  of 
the  servants.  We  were  friendly  at  once,  and  I 
found  her  very  talkative  ;  so  finally  I  asked  the 
question  which  was  uppermost  in  my  mind,  - 
Did  she  know  any  thing  about  Madam? 

"Lady  Ferry,  folks  call  her,"  said  Martha, 
much  interested.  '"I  never  have  seen  her  close 
to,  only  from  the  other  side  of  the  garden,  where 
she  walks  at  night.  She  never  goes  out  by  day. 
Deborah  waits  upon  her.  I  haven't  been  here 
long ;  but  I  have  always  heard  about  Madam, 
bless  you !  Folks  tell  all  kinds  of  strange 
stories.  She's  fearful  old,  and  there's  man}' 
believes  she  never  will  die  ;  and  where  she  came 
from  nobody  knows.  I've  heard  that  her  folks 
used  to  live  here  ;  but  nobody  can  remember  them, 
and  she  used  to  wander  about ;  and  once  before 
she  was  here,  —  a  good  while  ago;  but  this  last 
time  she  come  was  nine  years  ago ;  one  etormy 
night  she  came  across  the  ferry,  and  scared  them 
to  death,  looking  in  at  the  window  like  a  ghost. 
She  said  she  used  to  live  here  in  Colonel  Haver- 
ford's  time.  They  saw  she  wasn't  right  in  her 


LADY  FERRY.  197 

head  —  the  ferry-men  did.  But  she  came  up  to 
the  house,  and  they  let  her  in,  and  she  went 
straight  to  the  rooms  in  the  north  gable,  and  she 
never  has  gone  away  ;  it  was  in  an  awful  storm 
she  come,  I've  heard,  and  she  looked  just  the 
same  as  she  does  now.  There  !  I  can't  tell  half 
the  stories  I've  heard,  and  Deborah  she  most 
took  my  head  off,"  said  Martha,  "  because,  when 
I  first  came,  I  was  asking  about  her ;  and  she 
said  it  was  a  sin  to  gossip  about  a  harmless  old 
creature  whose  mind  was  broke,  but  I  guess  most 
everybody  thinks  there's  something  mysterious. 
There's  my  grandmother  —  her  mind  is  failing 
her ;  but  she  never  had  such  wa}*s  !  And  then 
those  clothes  that  my  lad}-  in  the  gable  wears : 
they're  unearthh'  looking  ;  and  I  heard  a  woman 
say  once,  that  the\~  come  out  of  a  chest  in  the 
big  garret,  and  they  belonged  to  a  Mistress 
Haverford  who  was  hung  for  a  witch,  but  there's 
no  knowing  that  there  is  an}'  truth  in  it."  And 
Martha  would  have  gone  on  with  her  stories,  if 
just  then  we  had  not  heard  cousin  Agnes's  step 
on  the  stairway,  and  I  hurried  into  bed. 

But  1113*  bright  eyes  and  excited  look  betrayed 
me.  Cousin  Agnes  said  she  had  hoped  I  would 
be  asleep.  And  Martha  said  perhaps  it  was  her 


198  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

fault ;  but  I  seemed  wakeful,  and  she  had  talked 
with  me  a  bit,  to  keep  my  spirits  up,  coming  to 
a  new,  strange  place.  The  apology  was  accepted, 
but  Martha  evidently  had  orders  before  I  next 
saw  her  ;  for  I  never  could  get  her  to  discuss  Lady 
Ferry  again ;  and  she  carefully  told  me  that  she 
should  not  have  told  those  foolish  stories,  which 
were  not  true  :  but  I  knew  that  she  still  had  her 
thoughts  and  suspicions  as  well  as  I.  Once,  when 
I  asked  her  if  Lady  Feny  were  Madam's  real 
name,  she  answered  with  a  guilty  flush,  "  That's 
what  the  folks  hereabout  called  her,  because 
the}'  didn't  know  any  other  at  first."  And  this 
to  me  was  another  irrysteiy.  It  wras  strongly 
impressed  upon  my  mind  that  I  must  ask  no 
questions,  and  that  Madam  was  not  to  be  dis 
cussed.  Xo  one  distinctly  forbade  this  ;  but  I 
felt  that  it  would  not  do.  In  every  other  way 
I  was  sure  that  I  was  allowed  perfect  liberty,  so 
I  soon  ceased  to  puzzle  myself  or  other  people, 
and  accepted  Madam's  presence  as  being  perfectly 
explainable  and  natural,  — just  as  the  rest  of  the 
household  did,  —  except  once  in  a  while  something 
would  set  me  at  work  romancing  and  wondering ; 
and  I  read  some  stories  in  one  of  the  books  in 
the  library,  —  of  Peter  Rugg  the  missing  man, 


LADY  FERRY.  199 

whom  one  may  alwaj's  meet  riding  from  Salem 
to  Boston  in  every  storm,  and  of  the  Flying  Dutch 
man  and  the  AVandering  Jew,  and  some  terrible 
German  stories  of  doomed  people,  and  curses 
that  were  fulfilled.  These  made  a  great  impres 
sion  upon  me  ;  still  I  was  not  afraid,  for  all  such 
things  were  far  outside  the  boundaries  of  nvy 
safe  little  world  ;  and  I  played  by  myself  along 
the  shore  of  the  river  and  in  the  garden  ;  and  I 
had  my  lessons  with  cousin  Agnes,  and  drives 
with  cousin  Matthew  who  was  nearly  always 
silent,  but  very  kind  to  me.  The  house  itself  was 
an  unfailing  entertainment,  with  its  man}'  rooms, 
most  of  which  were  never  occupied,  and  its 
quaint,  sober  furnishings,  some  of  which  were  as 
old  as  the  house  itself.  It  was  like  a  story-book  ; 
and  no  one  minded  my  going  where  I  pleased. 

I  missed  my  father  and  mother ;  but  the  only 
time  I  was  really  unhapp}'  was  the  first  morning 
after  my  arrival.  Cousin  Agnes  was  ill  with  a 
severe  headache ;  cousin  Matthew  had  ridden 
away  to  attend  to  some  business  ;  and,  being  left 
to  myself,  I  had  a  most  decided  re-action  from 
my  unnaturally  bright  feelings  of  the  da}'  before. 
I  began  to  write  a  letter  to  nry  mother ;  but 
unluckily  I  knew  how  many  weeks  must  pass 


200  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

before  she  saw  it,  and  it  was  useless  to  try  to  go 
on.  I  was  lonely  and  homesick.  The  rain  fell 
heavily,  and  the  garden  looked  forlorn,  and  so 
unlike  the  enchanting  moonlighted  place  where  I 
had  been  in  the  evening !  The  walks  were  like 
little  canals  ;  and  the  rose-bushes  looked  wet  and 
chilh',  like  some  gay  young  lady  who  had  been 
caught  in  the  rain  in  party-dress.  It  was  low- 
tide  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  the  river-flats 
looked  dismal.  I  fed  cousin  Agnes'  flock  of 
tame  sparrows  which  came  around  the  windows, 
and  afterward  some  robins.  I  found  some  books 
and  some  candy  which  had  come  in  my  trunk, 
but  my  heart  was  very  sad  ;  and  just  after  noon 
I  was  overjoyed  when  one  of  the  servants  told 
me  that  cousin  Agnes  would  like  to  have  me 
come  to  her  room. 

She  was  even  kinder  to  me  than  she  had  been 
the  night  before  ;  but  she  looked  veiy  ill,  and  at 
first  I  felt  awkward,  and  did  not  know  what  to 
say.  "I  am  afraid  you  have  been  very  dull, 
dearie,"  said  she,  reaching  out  her  hand  to  me. 
t;I  am  sorry,  and  my  headache  hardly  lets  me 
think  at  all  yet.  But  we  will  have  better  times 
to-morrow  —  both  of  us.  You  must  ask  for  what 
you  want ;  and  you  ma}'  come  and  spend  this 


LADY  FERRY.  201 

evening  with  me,  for  I  shall  be  getting  well  then. 
It  does  me  good  to  see  your  kind  little  face. 
Suppose  you  make  Madam  a  call  this  afternoon. 
She  told  me  last  night  that  she  wished  for  you, 
and  I  was  so  glad.  Deborah  will  show  you  the 
way." 

Deborah  talked  to  me  softly,  out  of  deference 
to  her  mistress's  headache,  as  we  went  along 
the  crooked  passages.  "  Don't  you  mind  what 
Madam  says,  leastwa}*s  don't  you  dispute  her. 
She's  got  a  funeral  going  on  to-day  ;"  and  the 
grave  woman  smiled  grimly  at  me.  "  It's  curious 
she's  taken  to  you  so  ;  for  she  never  will  see  any 
strange  folks.  Nobody  speaks  to  her  about  new 
folks  lately,"  she  added  warning!}',  as  she  tapped 
at  the  door,  and  Madam  asked,  "  Is  it  the  child  ?  " 
And  Deborah  lifted  the  latch.  When  I  was  fairly 
inside,  my  interest  in  life  came  back  redoubled, 
and  I  was  no  longer  sad,  but  looked  round 
eagerly.  Madam  spoke  to  me,  with  her  sweet  old 
voice,  in  her  courtly,  quiet  way,  and  stood  look 
ing  out  of  the  window. 

There  were  two  tall  chests  of  drawers  in  the 
room,  with  shining  brass  handles  and  ornaments  ; 
and  at  one  side,  near  the  door,  was  a  heavy  ma 
hogany  table,  on  which  I  saw  a  large  leather- 


202  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

covered  Bible,  a  decanter  of  wine  and  some 
glasses,  beside  some  cakes  in  a  queer  old  tray. 
And  there  was  no  other  furniture  but  a  great 
number  of  chairs  which  seemed  to  have  been 
collected  from  different  parts  of  the  house. 

With  these  the  room  was  almost  filled,  except 
an  open  space  in  the  centre,  toward  which  the}-  all 
faced.  One  window  was  darkened  ;  but  Madam 
had  pushed  back  the  shutter  of  the  other,  and 
stood  looking  down  at  the  garden.  I  waited  for 
her  to  speak  again  after  the  first  salutation,  and 
presently  she  said  I  might  be  seated  ;  and  I  took 
the  nearest  chair,  and  again  waited  her  pleasure. 
It  was  gloom}'  enough,  with  the  silence  and  the 
twilight  in  the  room  ;  and  the  rain  and  wind  out 
of  doors  sounded  louder  than  they  had  in  cousin 
Agnes 's  room  ;  but  soon  Lady  Ferry  came  toward 
me. 

"  So  you  did  not  forget  the  old  woman,"  said 
she,  with  a  strange  emphasis  on  the  word  old,  as 
if  that  were  her  title  and  her  chief  characteristic. 
' '  And  were  not  you  afraid  ?  I  am  glad  it  seemed 
wTorth  while  ;  for  to-morrow  would  have  been  too 
late.  You  may  like  to  remember  by  and  by  that 
you  came.  And  my  funeral  is  to  be  to-morrow, 
at  last.  You  see  the  room  is  in  readiness.  You 


LADY  FERRY.  203 

will  care  to  be  here,  I  hope.  I  would  have  ordered 
you  some  gloves  if  I  had  known ;  but  these  are 
all  too  large  for  your  little  hands.  You  shall 
have  a  ring  ;  I  will  leave  a  command  for  that ;  ' ' 
and  Madam  seated  herself  near  me  in  a  curious, 
high-backed  chair.  She  was  dressed  that  day  in 
a  maroon  brocade,  figured  with  bunches  of  dim 
pink  flowers ;  and  some  of  these  flowers  looked 
to  me  like  wicked  little  faces.  It  was  a  mocking, 
sill}*  creature  that  I  saw  at  the  side  of  every  prim 
bouquet,  and  I  looked  at  the  faded  little  imps, 
until  they  seemed  as  much  alive  as  Lady  Feriy 
herself. 

Her  head  nodded  continuall}*,  as  if  it  were  keep 
ing  time  to  an  inaudible  tune,  as  she  sat  there 
stiffly  erect.  Her  skin  was  pale  and  withered ; 
and  her  cheeks  were  wrinkled  in  fine  lines,  like 
the  crossings  of  a  cobweb.  Her  eyes  might 
once  have  been  bme  ;  but  they  had  become  nearly 
colorless,  and,  looking  at  her,  one  might  easily 
imagine  that  she  was  blind.  She  had  a  singularly 
sweet  smile,  and  a  musical  voice,  which,  though 
sad,  had  no  trace  of  whining.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  her  smile  and  her  voice,  I  think  madam  would 
have  been  a  terror  to  me.  I  noticed  to-day,  for 
the  first  time,  a  curious  fragrance,  which  seemed 


204  OLD  FRIENDS  AXD  XEW. 

to  come  from  her  old  brocades  and  silks.  It  was 
very  sweet,  but  unlike  ainT  thing  I  had  ever 
known  before  ;  and  it  was  by  reason  of  this  that 
afterward  I  often  knew,  with  a  little  flutter  at  my 
heart,  she  had  been  in  some  other  rooms  of  the 
great  house  beside  her  own.  This  perfume  seemed 
to  linger  for  a  little  while  wherever  she  had  been, 
and  }'et  it  was  so  faint !  I  used  to  go  into  the 
darkened  chambers  often,  or  even  stay  for  a  while 
b}'  myself  in  the  unoccupied  lower  rooms,  and 
I  would  find  this  fragrance,  and  wonder  if  she 
were  one  of  the  oldtime  fairies,  who  could  vanish 
at  their  own  will  and  pleasure,  and  wonder,  too, 
wlvy  she  had  come  to  the  room.  But  I  never  met 
her  at  all. 

That  first  visit  to  her  and  the  strange  fancy 
she  had  about  the  funeral  I  have  always  remem 
bered  distinctly. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  Madam  repeated  :  "  I 
was  finding  the  day  long.  I  am  all  reads',  you 
see.  I  shall  place  a  little  chair  which  is  in  the 
next  room,  beside  your  cousin's  seat  for  you. 
Mrs.  Agnes  is  ill,  I  hear ;  but  I  think  she  will 
come  to-morrow.  Have  }'ou  heard  an}'  one  say 
if  many  guests  are  expected  ?  "  —  "  Xo,  Madam, ' ' 
I  answered,  "no  one  has  told  me;"  and  just 


LADY  FERRY.  205 

then  the  thought  flitted  through  my  head  that 
she  had  said  the  evening  before  that  all  her 
friends  were  gone.  Perhaps  she  expected  their 
ghosts  :  that  would  not  be  stranger  than  all  the 
rest. 

The  open  space  where  Lady  Feriy  had  left 
room  for  her  coffin  began  to  be  a  horror  to  me, 
and  I  wished  Deborah  would  come  back,  or  that 
my  hostess  would  open  the  shutters  ;  and  it  wras 
a  great  relief  when  she  rose  and  went  into  the 
adjoining  room,  bidding  me  follow  her,  and  there 
opened  a  drawer  containing  some  old  jewelry  ; 
there  were  also  some  queer  Chinese  carvings, 
yellow  with  age, — just  the  things  a  child  would 
enjoy.  I  looked  at  them  delightedly.  This  was 
coming  back  to  more  familiar  life  ;  and  I  soon 
felt  more  at  ease,  and  chattered  to  Lad}'  Ferry  of 
my  own  possessions,  and  some  coveted  treasures 
of  nry  mother's,  which  were  to  be  mine  when  I 
grew  older. 

Madam  stood  beside  me  patiently,  and  listened 
with  a  half  smile  to  my  whispered  admiration. 
In  the  clearer  light  I  could  see  her  better,  and 
she  seemed  older,  —  so  old,  so  old !  and  my 
father's  words  came  to  me  again.  She  had  not 
changed  since  he  was  a  boy  ;  living  on  and  on, 


206  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

and  '  the  horror  of  an  endless  life  in  this  world  !  ' 
And  I  remembered  what  Martha  had  said  to  me, 
and  the  consciousness  of  this  mystery  was  a  great 
weight  upon  me  of  a  sudden.  Why  was  she 
living  so  long?  and  what  had  happened  to  her? 
and  how  long  could  it  be  since  she  was  a  child  ? 

There  was  something  in  her  manner  which 
made  me  behave,  even  in  nrv  pleasure,  as  if  her 
imagined  funeral  were  there  in  reality,  and  as  if, 
in  spite  of  my  being  amused  and  tearless,  the 
solemn  company  of  funeral  guests  already  sat  in 
the  next  room  to  us  with  bowed  heads,  and  all 
the  shadows  in  the  world  had  assembled  there 
materialized  into  the  tangible  form  of  crape.  I 
opened  and  closed  the  boxes  gently,  and,  when  I 
had  seen  every  thing,  I  looked  up  with  a  sigh  to 
think  that  such  a  pleasure  was  ended,  and  asked 
if  I  might  see  them  again  some  day.  But  the 
look  in  her  face  made  me  recollect  myself,  and  my 
own  grew  crimson,  for  it  seemed  at  that  moment 
as  real  to  me  as  to  Lad}*  Ferry  herself  that  this 
was  her  last  day  of  mortal  life.  She  walked 
away,  but  presently  came  back,  while  I  was  won 
dering  if  I  might  not  go,  and  opened  the  drawer 
again.  It  creaked,  and  the  brass  handles  clacked 
in  a  startling  way,  and  she  took  out  a  little  case, 


LADY  FERRY.  207 

and  said  I  might  keep  it  to  remember  her  by.  It 
held  a  little  vinaigrette,  —  a  tin}*  silver  box  with  a 
gold  one  inside,  in  which  I  found  a  bit  of  fine 
sponge,  dark  brown  with  age,  and  still  giving  a 
faint,  musty  perfume  and  spiciness.  The  outside 
was  rudely  chased,  and  was  worn  as  if  it  had 
been  carried  for  years  in  somebody's  pocket.  It 
had  a  spring,  the  secret  of  which  Lady  Ferry 
showed  me.  I  was  delighted,  and  instinctively 
lifted  my  face  to  kiss  her.  She  bent  over  me, 
and  waited  an  instant  for  me  to  kiss  her  again. 
'•Oh!"  said  she  softly,  "it  is  so  long  since  a 
child  has  kissed  me  !  I  pray  God  not  to  leave 
you  lingering  like  me,  apart  from  all  your  kin 
dred,  and  your  life  so  long  that  you  forget  3*011 
ever  were  a  child."  —  "I  will  kiss  3*011  every 
day,"  said  I,  and  then  again  remembered  that 
there  were  to  be  no  more  days  according  to  her 
plan  ;  but  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  1113'  mistake. 
And  after  this  I  used  to  go  to  see  Madam 
often.  For  a  timo  there  was  always  the  same 
gloom  and  hushed  way  of  speaking,  and  the  fu 
neral  services  were  to  be  on  the  morrow  ;  bat  at 
last  one  da}'  I  found  Deborah  sedately  putting 
the  room  in  order,  and  Lady  Ferry  apologized  for 
its  being  in  such  confusion ;  the  idea  of  the 


208  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

funeral  had  utterly  vanished,  and  I  hurried  to 
tell  cousin  Agnes  with  great  satisfaction.  I 
think  that  both  she  and  cousin  Matthew  had  a 
dislike  for  1113*  being  too  much  with  Madam.  I 
was  kept  out  of  doors  as  much  as  possible  be 
cause  it  was  much  better  for  my  health ;  and 
through  the  long  summer  days  I  strayed  about 
wherever  I  chose.  The  countiy  life  was  new  and 
delightful  to  me.  At  home,  Lad}*  Ferry's  vagaries 
were  carelessly  spoken  of,  and  often  smiled  at ; 
but  I  gained  the  idea  that  the}T  disguised  the 
-truth,  and  were  afraid  of  1113'  being  frightened. 
She  often  talked  about  persons  who  had  been 
dead  a  very  long  time,  —  familiar  characters  in 
history,  and,  though  cousin  Agnes  had  said  that 
she  used  to  be  fond  of  reading,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  Madam  might  have  known  these  men  and 
women  after  all. 

Once  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  an  acquaint 
ance  of  cousin  Matthew's,  came  to  pass  a  day  and 
night  at  the  feriy,  and  something  happened  then 
which  seemed  wonderful  to  me.  It  was  early  in 
the  evening  after  tea,  and  we  were  in  the  parlor ; 
from  m}'  seat  l)y  cousin  Agnes  I  could  look  out 
into  the  garden,  and  presently,  with  the  gathering 
darkness,  came  Lady  Ferry,  silent  as  a  shadow 


LADY  FERRY.  209 

herself,  to  walk  to  and  fro  on  the  flagstones.  The 
windows  were  all  open,  and  the  guest  had  a  clear, 
loud  voice,  and  pleasant,  hearty  laugh  ;  and,  as 
he  talked  earnestly  with  cousin  Matthew,  I  no 
ticed  that  Lady  Ferry  stood  still,  as  if  she  were 
listening.  Then  I  was  attracted  by  some  story 
which  was  being  told,  and  forgot  her,  but  after 
ward  turned  with  a  start,  feeling  that  there  was 
some  one  watching ;  and,  to  in}*  astonishment, 
Madam  had  come  to  the  long  window  by  which 
one  went  out  to  the  garden.  She  stood  there  a 
moment,  looking  puzzled  and  wild;  then  she 
smiled,  and,  entering,  walked  in  most  stately 
fashion  down  the  long  room,  toward  the  gentle 
men,  before  whom  she  courtesied  with  great 
elegance^  while  the  stranger  stopped  speaking, 
and  looked  at  her  with  amazement,  as  he  rose, 
and  returned  her  greeting. 

' l  My  dear  Captain  Jack  McAllister !  ' '  said 
she;  "what  a  surprise!  and  are  3*011  not  home 
soon  from  your  voyage  ?  This  is  indeed  a  pleas 
ure."  And  Lady  Ferry  seated  herself,  motioning 
to  him  to  take  the  chair  beside  her.  She  looked 
younger  than  I  had  ever  seen  her ;  a  bright  color 
came  into  her  cheeks  ;  and  she  talked  so  gayly,  in 
such  a  different  manner  from  her  usual  mournful 


210  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

gentleness.       She   must   have    been    a   beautiful 
woman  ;  indeed  she  was  that  still. 

"And  did  the  good  ship  Starlight  make  a 
prosperous  voyage  ?  and  had  you  many  perils  ?  — 
do  you  bring  much  news  to  us  from  the  Spanish 
Main  ?  We  have  missed  you  sadly  at  the  assem 
blies  ;  but  there  must  be  a  dance  in  your  honor. 
And  your  wife  ;  is  she  not  overjo}*ed  at  the  sight 
of  you  ?  I  think  3*011  have  grown  old  and  sedate 
since  }'ou  went  awaj*.  You  do  not  look  the  gay 
sailor,  or  seem  so  light-hearted." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  madam,"  said  the 
stranger.  u  I  am  certainly  John  McAllister;  but 
I  am  no  captain,  neither  have  I  been  at  sea. 
Good  God  !  is  it  my  grandfather  whom  you  con 
fuse  me  with?"  cried  he.  "lie  was  Jack  Mc 
Allister,  and  was  lost  at  sea  more  than  seventy 
years  ago,  while  my  owrn  father  was  a  baby.  I 
am  told  that  I  am  wonderfully  like  his  portrait ; 
but  he  was  a  younger  man  than  I  when  he  died. 
This  is  some  masquerade." 

Lady  Ferry  looked  at  him  intently,  but  the  light 
in  her  face  was  fast  fading  out.  "•  Lost  at  sea,— 
lost  at  sea,  were  you,  Jack  McAllister,  seventy 
years  ago  ?  I  know  nothing  of  3*ears ;  one  of 
my  days  is  like  another,  and  they  are  gray  days, 


LADY  FERRY.  211 

they  creep  away  and  hide,  and  sometimes  one 
comes  back  to  mock  me.  I  have  lived  a  thousand 
years  ;  do  you  know  it  ?  Lost  at  sea  —  captain 
of  the  ship  Starlight?  Whom  did  you  say?  — 
Jack  McAllister,  yes,  I  knew  him  well  —  pardon 
me  ;  good-evening  ;  "  and  my  Iad3'  rose,  and  with 
her  head  nodding  and  drooping,  with  a  sorrowful, 
hunted  look  in  her  e}~es,  went  out  again  into  the 
shadows.  She  had  had  a  flash  of  youth,  the 
candle  had  blazed  up  brilliantly  ;  but  it  went  out 
again  as  suddenly,  with  flickering  and  smoke. 

"  I  was  startled  when  I  saw  her  beside  me," 
said  Mr.  McAllister.  "Pray,  who  is  she?  she  is 
like  no  one  I  have  ever  seen.  I  have  been  told 
that  I  am  like  my  grandfather  in  looks  and  in 
voice  ;  but  it  is  years  since  I  have  seen  any  one 
who  knew  him  well.  And  did  }'ou  hear  her  speak 
of  dancing?  It  is  like  seeing  one  who  has  risen 
from  the  dead.  How  old  can  she  be? "  —  "I  do 
not  know,"  said  cousin  Matthew,  "one  can  only 
guess  at  her  age."  —  "  Would  not  she  come  back? 
I  should  like  to  question  her,"  asked  the  other. 
But  cousin  Matthew  answered  that  she  always 
refused  to  see  strangers,  and  it  would  be  no  use 
to  urge  her,  she  would  not  answer  him. 

' '  Who  is  she  ?  Is  she  any  kin  of  yours  ?  ' ' 
asked  Mr.  McAllister. 


212  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  nry  cousin  Agnes  :  "  she  has 
had  no  relatives  since  I  have  known  her,  and  I 
think  she  has  no  friends  now  but  ourselves.  She 
has  been  with  us  a  long  time,  and  once  before 
this  house  was  her  home  for  a  time,  —  many  years 
since.  I  suppose  no  one  will  ever  know  the 
whole  history  of  her  life  ;  I  wish  often  that  she 
had  power  to  tell  it.  We  are  glad  to  give  shelter, 
and  the  little  care  she  will  accept,  to  the  poor 
soul,  God  only  knows  where  she  has  stra3'ed 
and  what  she  has  seen.  It  is  an  enormous  bur 
den, —  so  long  a  life,  and  such  a  weight  of  mem 
ories  ;  but  I  think  it  is  seldom  now  that  she  feels 
its  heaviness.  —  Go  out  to  her,  Marcia  my  dear, 
and  see  if  she  seems  troubled.  She  always  has 
a  welcome  for  the  child,"  cousin  Agnes  added, 
as  I  unwillingly  went  away. 

I  found  Lady  Ferry  in  the  garden ;  I  stole  my 
hand  into  hers,  and,  after  a  few  minutes  of  si 
lence,  I  was  not  surprised  to  hear  her  sa}-  that 
they  had  killed  the  Queen  of  France,  poor  Marie 
Antoinette  !  she  had  known  her  well  in  her  child 
hood,  before  she  was  a  queen  at  all  —  "a  sad  fate, 
a  sad  fate,"  said  Lady  Ferry.  We  went  for 
down  the  gardens  and  by  the  river-wall,  and 
when  we  were  again  near  the  house,  and  could 


LADY  FERRY.  213 

hear  Mr.  McAllister's  voice  as  cheeiy  as  ever, 
madam  took  no  notice  of  it.  I  had  hoped  she 
would  go  into  the  parlor  again,  and  1  wished 
over  and  over  that  I  could  have  waited  to  hear 
the  secrets  which  I  was  sure  must  have  been  told 
after  cousin  Agnes  had  sent  me  away. 

One  day  I  thought  I  had  made  a  wonderful  dis 
covery.  I  was  fond  of  reading,  and  found  many 
books  which  interested  me  in  cousin  Matthew's 
fine  library  ;  but  I  took  great  pleasure  also  in 
hunting  through  a  collection  of  old  volumes  which 
had  been  cast  aside,  either  by  him,  or  by  some 
former  owner  of  the  house,  and  which  were  piled 
in  a  corner  of  the  great  garret.  The}'  were  most- 
ly  yellow  with  age,  and  had  dark  brown  leather 
or  shabby  paper  bindings  ;  the  pictures  in  some 
were  very  amusing  to  me.  I  used  often  to  find 
one  which  I  appropriated  and  carried  down  stairs  ; 
and  on  this  da}'  I  came  upon  a  dusty,  odd-shaped 
little  book,  for  which  I  at  once  felt  an  affection. 
I  looked  at  it  a  little.  It  seemed  to  be  a  journal, 
there  were  some  stories  of  the  Indians,  and 
next  I  saw  some  reminiscences  of  the  town  of 
Boston,  where,  among  other  things,  the  author 
was  told  the  marvellous  story  of  one  Mistress 
Honor  Warburton.  who  was  cursed,  and  doomed 


214  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW, 

to  live  in  this  world  forever.  This  was  startling. 
I  at  once  thought  of  Madam,  and  was  reading  on 
further  to  know  the  rest  of  the  stoiy,  when  some 
one  called  me,  and  I  foolishly  did  not  dare  to 
carry  my  book  with  me.  I  was  afraid  I  should 
not  find  it  if  I  left  it  in  sight ;  I  saw  an  opening 
near  me  at  the  edge  of  the  floor  by  the  eaves,  and 
I  carefully  laid  my  treasure  inside.  But,  alas  !  I 
was  not  to  be  sure  of  its  safe  hiding-place  in  a 
wa}T  that  I  fancied,  for  the  book  fell  down  be 
tween  the  boarding  of  the  thick  walls,  and  I 
heard  it  knock  as  it  fell,  and  knew  by  the  sound 
that  it  must  be  out  of  reach.  I  grieved  over  this 
loss  for  a  long  time  ;  and  I  felt  that  it  had  been 
most  unkindly  taken  out  of  ni}'  hand.  I  wished 
heartily  that  I  could  know  the  rest  of  the  story  ; 
and  I  tried  to  summon  courage  to  ask  Madam, 
when  we  were  by  ourselves,  if  she  had  heard  of 
Honor  Warburton,  but  something  held  me  back. 
There  were  two  other  events  just  at  this  time 
which  made  this  strange  old  friend  of  mine  seem 
stranger  than  ever  to  me.  I  had  a  dream  one 
night,  which  I  took  for  a  vision  and  a  reality  at 
the  time.  I  thought  I  looked  out  of  my  window 
in  the  night,  and  there  was  bright  moonlight, 
and  I  could  see  the  other  gable  plainly ;  and  I 


LADY  FERRY.  215 

looked  in  at  the  windows  of  an  unoccupied  par 
lor  which  I  never  had  seen  open  before,  under 
Lad}'  Ferry's  own  rooms.  The  shutters  were 
pushed  back,  and  there  were  candles  burning; 
and  I  heard  voices,  and  presently  some  tinkling 
music,  like  that  of  a  harpsichord  I  had  once 
heard  in  a  very  old  house  where  I  had  been  in 
England  with  my  mother.  I  saw  several  couples 
go  through  with  a  slow,  statety  dance  ;  and,  when 
they  stopped  and  seated  themselves,  I  could  hear 
their  voices  ;  but  they  spoke  low,  these  midnight 
guests.  I  watched  until  the  door  was  opened 
which  led  into  the  garden,  and  the  company  came 
out  and  stood  for  a  few  minutes  on  the  little 
lawn,  making  their  adieus,  bowing  low,  and  be 
having  with  astonishing  courtesy  and  elegance : 
finally  the  last  good-nights  were  said,  and  the}' 
went  away.  Lad}'  Ferry  stood  under  the  pointed 
porch,  looking  after  them,  and  I  could  see  her 
plainly  in  her  brocade  gown,  with  the  impish 
flowers,  a  tall  quaint  cap,  and  a  high  lace  frill  at 
her  throat,  whiter  than  any  lace  I  had  ever  seen, 
with  a  glitter  on  it ;  and  there  was  a  glitter  on 
her  face  too.  One  of  the  other  ladies  was 
dressed  in  velvet,  and  I  thought  she  looked  beau 
tiful  :  their  eyes  were  all  like  sparks  of  fire.  The 


21 G  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

gentlemen  wore  cloaks  and  ruffs,  and  high-peaked 
hats  with  wide  brims,  such  as  I  had  seen  in  some 
very  old  pictures  which  hung  on  the  walls  of  the 
long  west  room.  These  were  not  pilgrims  or 
Puritans,  but  gay  gentlemen  ;  and  soon  I  heard 
the  noise  of  their  boats  on  the  pebbles  as  the}' 
pushed  off  shore,  and  the  splash  of  the  oars  in 
the  water.  Lady  Ferry  waved  her  hand,  and 
went  in  at  the  door ;  and  I  found  myself  stand 
ing  by  the  window  in  the  chilly,  cloudy  night : 
the  opposite  gable,  the  garden,  and  the  river, 
were  indistinguishable  in  the  darkness.  I  stole 
back  to  bed  in  an  agon}'  of  fear  ;  for  it  had  been 
very  real,  that  dream.  I  surely  was  at  the  win 
dow,  for  my  hand  had  been  on  the  sill  when 
I  waked  ;  and  I  heard  a  church-bell  ring  two 
o'clock  in  a  town  far  up  the  river.  I  never  had 
heard  this  solemn  bell  before,  and  it  seemed 
frightful ;  but  I  knew  afterward  that  in  the  si 
lence  of  a  misty  night  the  sound  of  it  came  down 
along  the  water. 

In  the  morning  I  found  that  there  had  been  a 
gale  in  the  night ;  and  cousin  Matthew  said  at 
breakfast  time  that  the  tide  had  risen  so  that  it 
had  carried  off  two  old  boats  that  had  been  left 
on  the  shore  to  go  to  pieces.  I  sprang  to  the 


LADY  FEKEY.  217 

window,  and  sure  enough  they  had  disappeared. 
I  had  played,  in  one  of  them  the  day  before. 
Should  I  tell  cousin  Matthew  what  I  had  seen  or 
dreamed?  But  I  was  too  sure  that  he  would 
only  laugh  at  me  ;  and  yet  I  was  none  the  less 
sure  that  those  boats  had  carried  passengers. 

AY  hen  I  went  out  to  the  garden,  I  hurried  to 
the  porch,  and  saw,  to  my  disappointment,  that 
there  were  great  spiders'  webs  in  the  corners  of 
the  door,  and  around  the  latch,  and  that  it  had 
not  been  opened  since  I  was  there  before.  But 
I  saw  something  shining  in  the  grass,  and  found 
it  was  a  silver  knee-buckle.  It  must  have  be 
longed  to  one  of  the  ghostly  guests,  and  my  faith 
in  them  came  back  for  a  while,  in  spite  of  the 
cobwebs.  By  and  by  I  bravely  carried  it  up  to 
Madam,  and  asked  if  it  were  hers.  Sometimes 
she  would  not  answer  for  a  long  time,  when  one 
rudely  broke  in  upon  her  reveries,  and  she  hesi 
tated  now,  looking  at  me  with  singular  earnest 
ness.  Deborah  was  in  the  room ;  and,  when  she 
saw  the  buckle,  she  quietly  said  that  it  had  been 
on  the  window-ledge  the  day  before,  and  must 
have  slipped  out.  "  I  found  it  down  by  the  door 
step  in  the  grass,"  said  I  humbly;  and  then  I 
offered  Lad}'  Ferry  some  strawberries  which  I 


218  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

had  picked  for  her  on  a  broad  green  leaf,  and 
came  away  again. 

A  day  or  two  after  this,  while  my  dream  was 
still  fresh  in  my  mind,  I  went  with  Martha  to 
her  own  home,  which  was  a  mile  or  two  dis 
tant,  —  a  comfortable  farmhouse  for  those  days, 
where  I  was  always  made  welcome.  The  ser 
vants  were  all  very  kind  to  me :  as  I  recall  it 
now,  they  seemed  to  have  a  pity  for  me,  because 
I  was  the  only  child  perhaps.  I  was  very  happ}', 
that  is  certain,  and  I  enjo}'ed  1113*  childish  amuse 
ments  as  heartily  as  if  there  were  no  unfathoma 
ble  mysteries  or  perplexities  or  sorrows  any 
where  in  the  world. 

I  was  sitting  b}-  the  fireplace  at  Martha's,  and 
her  grandmother,  who  was  very  old,  and  who  was 
fast  losing  her  wits,  had  been  talking  to  me  about 
Madam.  I  do  not  remember  what  she  said,  at 
least,  it  made  little  impression  ;  but  her  grandson, 
a  worthless  fellow,  sauntered  in,  and  began  to  tell 
a  story  of  his  own,  hearing  of  whom  we  spoke. 
"I  was  coming  home  late  last  night,"  said  he, 
"  and,  as  I  was  in  that  dark  place  along  by  the 
^Noroway  pines,  old  Lady  Ferry  she  went  by  me, 
and  I  was  near  scared  to  death.  She  looked 
fearful  tall  —  towered  way  up  above  me.  Her 


LADY  FERRY.  219 

face  was  all  lit  up  with  blue  light,  and  her  feet 
didn't  touch  the  ground.  She  wasn't  taking- 
steps,  she  wasn't  walking,  but  movin'  along  like 
a  sail-boat  before  the  wind.  I  dodged  behind 
some  little  birches,  and  I  was  scared  she'd  see 
me ;  but  she  went  right  out  o'  sight  up  the  road. 
She  ain't  mortal." 

t-  Don't  scare  the  child  with  such  foolishness," 
said  his  aunt  disdainfully.  "  You'll  be  seein' 
worse  things  a-dancin'  before  your  eyes  than  that 
poor,  harmless  old  creator'  if  you  don't  quit  the 
ways  you've  been  following  lately.  If  that  was 
last  night,  you  were  too  drunk  to  see  any  thing  ;  " 
and  the  fellow  muttered,  and  went  out,  banging 
the  door.  But  the  story  had  been  told,  and  I 
was  stiffened  and  chilled  with  fright ;  and  all  the 
way  home  I  was  in  terror,  looking  fearfully  behind 
me  again  and  again. 

When  I  saw  cousin  Agnes,  I  felt  safer,  and 
since  cousin  Matthew  was  not  at  home,  and  we 
were  alone,  I  could  not  resist  telling  her  what  I 
had  heard.  She  listened  to  me  kindly,  and  seemed 
so  confident  that  my  story  was  idle  nonsense,  that 
my  fears  were  quieted.  She  talked  to  me  until  I 
no  longer  was  a  believer  in  there  being  am'  un 
happy  mystery  or  harmfulness ;  but  I  could  not 


220  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW, 

get  over  the  fright,  and  I  dreaded  my  lonely 
room,  and  I  was  glad  enough  when  cousin  Agnes, 
with  her  unfailing  thoughtfulness,  asked  if  I  would 
like  to  have  her  come  to  sleep  with  me,  and  even 
went  up  stairs  with  me  at  my  own  early  bedtime, 
saying  that  she  should  find  it  dull  to  sit  all  alone 
in  the  parlor.  So  I  went  to  sleep,  thinking  of 
what  I  had  heard,  it  is  true,  but  no  longer  un 
happy,  because  her  dear  arm  was  over  me,  and  I 
was  perfectly  safe.  I  waked  up  for  a  little  while 
in  the  night,  and  it  was  light  in  the  room,  so  that 
I  could  see  her  face,  fearless  and  sweet  and  sad, 
and  I  wondered,  in  nry  blessed  sense  of  security, 
if  she  were  ever  afraid  of  an}'  thing,  and  why  I 
nryself  had  been  afraid  of  Lad}T  Feny. 

I  will  not  tell  other  stories :  they  are  much 
alike,  all  my  memories  of  those  weeks  and 
months  at  the  feny,  and  I  have  no  wish  to  be 
wearisome.  The  last  time  I  saw  Madam  she  was 
standing  in  the  garden  door  at  dusk.  I  was  go 
ing  awa}'  before  daylight  in  the  morning.  It  was 
in  the  autumn  :  some  dry  leaves  flittered  about 
on  the  stone  at  her  feet,  and  she  was  watching 
them.  I  said  good-by  again,  and  she  did  not 
answer  me  ;  but  I  think  she  knew  I  was  going 
away,  and  I  am  sure  she  was  sorry,  for  we  had 


LADY  FERRY.  221 

been  a  great  deal  together ;  and,  child  as  I  was, 
I  thought  to  how  man}'  friends  she  must  have  had 
to  say  farewell. 

Although  I  wished  to  see  my  father  and  mother, 
I  cried  as  if  my  heart  would  break  because  I  had 
to  leave  the  ferry.  The  time  spent  there  had 
been  the  happiest  time  of  all  my  life,  I  think.  I 
was  old  enough  to  enjoy,  but  not  to  suffer  much, 
and  there  was  singularly  little  to  trouble  one.  I 
did  not  know  that  my  life  was  ever  to  be  different. 
1  have  learned,  since  those  childish  ctays,  that  one 
must  battle  against  storms  if  one  would  reach 
the  calm  which  is  to  follow  them.  I  have  learned 
also  that  anxiety,  sorrow,  and  regret  fall  to  the 
lot  of  every  one,  and  that  there  is  always  under 
lying  our  lives,  this  mysterious  and  frightful  ele 
ment  of  existence  ;  an  uncertainty  at  times,  though 
we  do  trust  every  thing  to  God.  Under  the  best- 
loved  and  most  beautiful  face  we  know,  there  is 
hidden  a  skull  as  ghastly  as  that  from  which 
we  turn  aside  with  a  shudder  in  the  anatomist's 
cabinet.  We  smile,  and  are  gay  enough ;  God 
pity  us  !  We  try  to  forget  our  heart-aches  and 
remorse.  We  even  call  our  lives  commonplace, 
and,  bearing  our  own  heaviest  burdens  silently, 
we  try  to  keep  the  commandment,  and  to  bear 


222  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

one  another's  also.  There  is  One  who  knows : 
we  look  forward,  as  he  means  we  shall,  and  there 
is  always  a  hand  reach'  to  help  us,  though  we 
reach  out  for  it  doubtfully  in  the  dark. 

For  many  years  after  this  summer  was  over,  I 
lived  in  a  distant,  foreign  country  ;  at  last  my 
father  and  I  were  to  go  back  to  America.  Cousin 
Agnes  and  cousin  Matthew,  and  my  mother,  were 
all  long  since  dead,  and  I  rarely  thought  of  my 
childhood,  for  in  an  eventful  and  hurried  life  the 
present  claims  one  almost  wholly.  We  were 
travelling  in  Europe,  and  it  happened  that  one 
day  I  was  in  a  bookshop  in  Amsterdam,  waiting 
for  an  acquaintance  whom  I  was  to  meet,  and 
who  was  behind  tiifle. 

The  shop  was  a  quaint  place,  and  I  amused 
myself  by  looking  over  an  armful  of  old  English 
books  which  a  boy  had  thrown  down  near  me, 
raising  a  cloud  of  dust  which  was  plain  evidence 
of  their  antiquit}*.  I  came  to  one,  almost  the 
last,  which  had  a  strangely  familiar  look,  and  I 
found  that  it  was  a  cop}*  of  the  same  book  which 
I  had  lost  in  the  wall  at  the  ferry.  I  bought  it 
for  a  few  coppers  with  the  greatest  satisfaction, 
'vnd  began  at  once  to  read  it.  It  had  been  pub- 


LADY  FERRY.  223 

lished  in  England  earl}'  in  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury,  and  was  written  by  one  Mr.  Thomas  High- 
ward  of  Chester,  —  a  journal  of  his  travels  among 
some  of  the  English  colonists  of  North  America, 
containing  much  curious  and  desirable  knowl 
edge,  with  some  useful  advice  to  those  persons 
having  intentions  of  emigrating.  I  looked  at  the 
prosy  pages  here  and  there,  and  finally  found 
again  those  reminiscences  of  the  town  of  Boston 
and  the  story  of  Mistress  Honor  Warburton,  who 
was  cursed,  and  doomed  to  live  in  this  world  to 
the  end  of  time.  She  had  lately  been  in  Boston, 
but  had  disappeared  again  ;  she  endeavored  to 
disguise  herself,  and  would  not  stay  long  in  one 
place  if  she  feared  that  her  stoiy  was  known,  and 
that  she  was  recognized.  One  Mr.  Fleming,  a 
man  of  good  standing  and  repute,  and  an  officer 
of  Her  Majesty  Queen  Anne,  had  sworn  to  Mr. 
Thomas  Highward  that  his  father,  a  person  of 
great  age,  had  once  seen  Mistress  Warburton  in 
his  youth  ;  that  she  then  bore  another  name,  but 
had  the  same  appearance.  "Not  wishing  to 
seem  unduly  credulous,"  said  Mr.  Highward,  u  I 
disputed  this  tale  ;  but  there  was  some  considera 
ble  evidence  in  its  favour,  and  at  least  this  woman 


224:  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

was  of  vast  age,  and  was  spoken  of  with  extreme 
wonder  by  the  town's  folk." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  my  old  childish 
suspicions  of  Lad}'  Ferry,  though  I  smiled  at  the 
foil}'  of  them  and  of  this  story  more  than  once.. 
I  tried  to  remember  if  I  had  heard  of  her  death  ; 
Imt  I  was  still  a  child  when  my  cousin  Agnes 
had  died.  Had  poor  Lady  Ferry  survived  her? 
and  what  could  have  become  of  her?  I  asked  my 
father,  but  he  could  remember  nothing,  if  indeed 
he  ever  had  heard  of  her  death  at  all.  lie  spoke 
of  our  cousins'  kindness  to  this  forlorn  soul,  and 
that,  learning  her  desolation  and  her  piteous  his- 
toiy  (and  being  the  more  pitiful  because  of  her 
shattered  mind) ,  wrhen  she  had  last  wandered  to 
their  door,  the}'  had  cared  for  the  old  gentle 
woman  to  the  end  of  her  days  — ' '  for  I  do  not 
think  she  can  be  living  yet,"  said  my  father, 
with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eyes:  "she  must 
have  been  nearly  a  hundred  years  old  when  3*011 
saw  her.  She  belonged  to  a  fine  old  family 
which  had  gone  to  wreck  and  ruin.  She  strayed 
about  for  }rears,  and  it  was  a  godsend  to  her  to 
have  found  such  a  home  in  her  last  da}Ts." 

That  same  summer  we  reached  America,  and 


LADY  FERRY.  22o 

for  the  first  time  since  I  had  left  it  I  went  to  the 
ferry.  The  house  was  still  imposing,  the  pres 
tige  of  the  Ilaverford  grandeur  still  lingered ; 
but  it  looked  forlorn  and  uncared  for.  It  seemed 
very  familiar ;  but  the  months  I  had  spent  there 
were  so  long  ago,  that  they  seemed  almost  to 
belong  to  another  life.  I  sat  alone  on  the  door 
step  for  a  long  time,  where  I  used  often  to  watch 
for  Lady  Ferry ;  and  forgotten  thoughts  and 
dreams  of  my  childhood  came  back  to  me.  The 
river  was  the  only  thing  that  seemed  as  young  as 
ever.  I  looked  in  at  some  of  the  windows  where 
the  shutters  were  pushed  back,  and  I  walked 
about  the  garden,  where  I  could  hardly  trace  the 
walks,  all  overgrown  with  thick,  short  grass, 
though  there  were  a  few  ragged  lines  of  box,  and 
some  old  rose-bushes ;  and  I  saw  the  very  last 
of  the  flowers,  —  a  bright  red  popp}',  which  had 
bloomed  under  a  lilac-tree  among  the  weeds. 

Out  be}'ond  the  garden,  on  a  slope  by  the  river, 
I  saw  the  family  burying-ground,  and  it  was  with 
a  comfortable  warmth  at  my  heart  that  I  stood 
inside  the  familiar  old  enclosure.  There  was  my 
Lady  Ferry's  grave ;  there  could  be  no  mistake 
about  it,  and  she  was  dead.  I  smiled  at  my  sat 
isfaction  and  at  my  foolish  childish  thoughts, 


226  OLD  FRIEND  ti  AND  NEW. 

and  thanked  God  that  there  could  be  no  truth  in 
them,  and  that  death  comes  surety,  —  sa}',  rather, 
that  the  better  life  comes  surety,  —  though  it 
comes  late. 

The  sad-looking,  yellow-topped  cypress,  which 
only  seems  to  feel  quite  at  home  in  country  bury- 
ing-grounds,  had  kindty  spread  itself  like  a  cov 
erlet  over  the  grave,  which  already  looked  like  a 
very  old  grave  ;  and  the  headstone  was  leaning  a 
little,  not  to  be  out  of  the  fashion  of  the  rest.  I 
traced  again  the  words  of  old  Colonel  Haverford's 
pompous  epitaph,  and  idly  read  some  others.  I 
remembered  the  old  days  so  vividly  there ;  I 
thought  of  my  cousin  Agnes,  and  wished  that 
I  could  see  her ;  and  at  last,  as  the  daylight 
faded,  I  came  awa}'.  When  I  crossed  the  river, 
the  ferry-man  looked  at  me  wonderingty,  for  my 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  Although  we  were  in 
shadow  on  the  water,  the  last  red  glow  of  the  sun 
blazed  on  the  high  gable- windows,  just  as  it  did 
the  first  time  I  crossed  over,  —  only  a  child  then, 
with  my  life  before  me. 

I  asked  the  ferry-man  some  questions,  but  he 
could  tell  me  nothing ;  he  was  a  new-comer  to 
that  part  of  the  country.  He  was  sorry  that  the 
boat  was  not  in  better  order ;  but  there  were 


LAJ)Y  FERRY.  227 

almost  never  any  passengers.  The  great  house 
was  out  of  repair :  people  would  not  live  there, 
for  they  said  it  was  haunted.  Oh,  yes  I  he  had 
heard  of  Lady  Ferry.  She  had  lived  to  be  very 
ancient ;  but  she  was  dead. 

••  Yes,"  said  I,  "she  is  dead." 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE, 

OFTEN  think  of  a  boy  with  whom  I 
made  friends  last  summer,  during  some 
idle,  pleasant  days  that  I  spent  by  the 
sea.  I  was  almost  always  out  of  doors,  and  I 
used  to  watch  the  boats  go  out  and  come  in  ;  and 
I  had  a  hearty  liking  for  the  good-natured  fisher 
men,  who  were  lazy  and  busy  by  turns,  who 
waited  for  the  wind  to  change,  and  waited  for  the 
tide  to  turn,  and  waited  for  the  fish  to  bite,  and 
were  alwa}*s  ready  to  gossip  about  the  weather, 
and  the  fish,  and  the  wonderful  events  that  had 
befallen  them  and  their  friends. 

Georgie  was  the  only  boy  of  whom  I  ever  saw 
much  at  the  shore.  The  few  young  people  there 
were  all  went  to  school  through  the  hot  summer 
days  at  a  little  weather-beaten  schoolhouse  a  mile 
or  two  inland.  There  were  few  houses  to  be  seen, 
at  any  rate,  and  Georgie's  house  was  the  only  one 
228 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  229 

so  close  to  the  water.  lie  looked  already  noth 
ing  but  a  fisherman  ;  his  clothes  were  covered 
with  an  oil-skin  suit,  which  had  evidently  been 
awkwardly  cut  down  for  him  from  one  of  his  fa 
ther's,  of  whom  he  was  a  curious  little  likeness. 
I  could  hardly  believe  that  he  was  twelve  years 
old,  he  was  so  stunted  and  small ;  yet  he  was  a 
strong  little  fellow  ;  his  hands  were  horny  and 
hard  from  handling  the  clumsy  oars,  and  his  face 
was  so  brown  and  dry  from  the  hot  sun  and  chilly 
spray,  that  he  looked  even  older  when  one  came 
close  to  him.  The  first  time  I  saw  him  was  one 
evening  just  at  night-fall.  I  was  sitting  on  the 
pebbles,  and  he  came  down  from  the  fish-house 
with  some  lobster-nets,  and  a  bucket  with  some 
pieces  of  fish  in  it  for  bait,  and  put  them  into  the 
stern  of  one  of  the  boats  which  lay  just  at  the  edge 
of  the  rising  tide.  lie  looked  at  the  clouds  over 
the  sea,  and  at  the  open  sky  overhead,  in  an  old, 
wise  wa}~,  and  then,  as  if  satisfied  with  the  weath 
er,  began  to  push  off  his  boat.  It  dragged  on  the 
pebbles  ;  it  was  a  heavy  thing,  and  he  could  not 
get  it  far  enough  out  to  be  floated  liy  the  low 
waves,  so  I  went  down  to  help  him.  He  looked 
amazed  that  a  girl  should  have  thought  of  it,  and 
as  if  he  wished  to  ask  me  what  good  I  supposed  I 


230  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

could  do,  though  I  was  twice  his  size.  But  the 
boat  grated  and  slid  down  toward  the  sand,  and  I 
gave  her  a  last  push  as  the  bo}'  perched  with  one 
knee  on  her  gunwale  and  let  the  other  foot  drag  in 
the  water  for  a  minute.  lie  was  afloat  after  all ; 
and  he  took  the  oars,  and  pulled  manfully  out 
toward  the  moorings,  where  the  whale-boats  and  a, 
sail-boat  or  two  were  swaying  about  in  the  wind, 
which  was  rising  a  little  since  the  sun  had  set. 
lie  did  not  say  a  word  to  me,  or  I  to  him.  I 
wratched  him  go  out  into  the  twilight,  —  such 
a  little  fellow,  between  those  two  great  oars ! 
But  the  boat  could  not  drift  or  loiter  with  his 
stead}"  stroke,  and  out  he  went,  until  I  could  only 
see  the  boat  at  last,  lifting  and  sinking  on  the 
waves  bej'ond  the  reef  outside  the  moorings. 
I  asked  one  of  the  fishermen  whom  I  knew 
very  well,  "Who  is  that  little  fellow?  Ought 
he  to  be  out  by  himself,  it  is  growing  dark  so 
fast?" 

"  Wiry,  that's  Georgie!  "  said  my  friend,  with 
his  grim  smile.  "Bless  ye!  he's  like  a  duck; 
ye  can't  drown  him.  He  won't  be  in  until  ten 
o'clock,  like's  not.  He'll  go  way  out  to  the  far 
ledges  when  the  tide  covers  them  too  deep  where 
he  is  now.  Lobsters  he's  after." 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  231 

'•  "Whose  boy  is  lie?  "  said  I. 

"  "Why,  Andrei*' s,  up  here  to  the  fish-house. 
She's  dead,  and  him  and  the  boy  get  along  to 
gether  somehow  or  'nother.  They've  both  got 
something  saved  up,  and  Andrer's  a  clever  fel 
low  ;  took  it  very  hard,  losing  of  his  wife.  I 
was  telling  of  him  the  other  day  :  •  Andrei*,'  says 
I,  '  ye  ought  to  look  up  somcbod\*  or  'nother, 
and  not  live  this  way.  There's  plenty  o'  smart, 
stirring  women  that  would  mend  ye  up,  and  cook 
for  ye,  and  do  well  In-  ye. '  — '  No, '  sa3~s  he  ;  'I've 
lied  my  wife,  and  I've  lost  her.'  —  '  Well,  now,' 
says  I,  '  ye've  shown  respect,  and  there's  the  boy 
a-growin'  up,  and  if  either  of  3*011  was  took  sick, 
why,  here  ye  be.'  — '  Yes,'  says  he,  '  here  I  be, 
sure  enough ;  '  and  he  drawee!  a  long  breath,  's  if 
he  felt  bad  ;  so  that's  all  I  said.  But  it's  no 
way  for  a  man  to  get  along,  and  he  ought  to 
think  of  the  bo}'.  He  owned  a  good  house  about 
half  a  mile  up  the  road  ;  but  he  moved  right 
down  here  after  she  died,  and  his  cousin  took  it, 
and  it  burnt  up  in  the  winter.  Four  year  ago 
that  was.  I  was  down  to  the  Georges  Banks." 

Some  other  men  came  down  toward  the  water, 
and  took  a  boat  that  was  waiting,  already  fitted 
out  with  a  trawl  coiled  in  two  tubs,  and  some 


232  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

hand-lines  and  bait  for  rock-cod  and  haddock, 
and  my  friend  joined  them  ;  they  were  going  out 
for  a  night's  fishing.  I  watched  them  hoist  the 
little  sprit-sail,  and  drift  a  little  until  they  caught 
the  wind,  and  then  I  looked  again  for  Georgie, 
whose  boat  was  like  a  black  spot  on  the  water. 

I  knew  him  better  soon  after  that.  I  used  to 
go  out  with  him  for  lobsters,  or  to  catch  dinners, 
and  it  was  strange  that  he  never  had  any  cronies, 
and  would  hardly  speak  to  the  other  children. 
He  was  very  shy ;  but  he  had  put  all  his  heart 
into  his  work,  —  a  man's  hard  work,  which  he 
had  taken  from  choice.  His  father  was  kind  to 
him  ;  but  he  had  a  sorry  home,  and  no  mother,  — 
the  brave,  fearless,  steady  little  soul ! 

He  looked  forward  to  going  one  day  (I  hope 
that  day  has  already  dawned)  to  see  the  shipyards 
at  a  large  seaport  some  twenty  miles  away.  His 
face  lit  up  when  he  told  me  of  it,  as  some  other 
child's  would  who  had  been  promised  a  day  in 
faiiy-land.  And  he  confided  to  me  that  he  thought 
he  should  go  to  the  Banks  that  coming  winter. 
"  But  it's  so  cold  !  "  said  I :  "  should  you  really 
like  it?  "— «  Cold  !  "  said  Georgie.  "  Ho  !  rest 
of  the  men  never  froze."  That  was  it, — the 
' l  rest  of  the  men  ;  ' '  and  lie  would  work  until  he 


A  BIT  OF  HIIORE  LIFE.  233 

dropped,  or  tend  a  line  until  his  fingers  froze,  for 
the  sake  of  that  likeness,  —the  grave,  slow  little 
man,  who  has  so  much  business  with  the  sea,  and 
who  trusts  himself  with  touching  confidence  to  its 
treacherous  keeping  and  favor. 

Andrew  West,  Georgie's  father,  was  almost  as 
silent  as  his  son  at  first,  but  it  was  not  long  be 
fore  we  were  veiy  good  friends,  and  I  went  out 
with  him  at  four  o'clock  one  morning,  to  see 
him  set  his  trawl.  I  remember  there  was  a  thin 
mist  over  the  sea,  and  the  air  was  almost  chilly  ; 
hut,  as  the  sun  came  up,  it  changed  the  color  of 
every  thing  to  the  most  exquisite  pink,  — the 
smooth,  slow  waves,  and  the  mist  that  blew  over 
them  as  if  it  were  a  cloud  that  had  fallen  down 
out  of  the  sky.  The  world  just  then  was  like  the 
hollow  of  a  great  pink  sea-shell ;  and  we  could 
only  hear  the  noise  of  it,  the  dull  sound  of  the 
waves  among  the  outer  ledges. 

We  had  to  drift  about  for  an  hour  or  two  when 
the  trawl  was  set ;  and  after  a  while  the  fog  shut 
down  again  gray  and  close,  so  we  could  not 
see  either  the  sun  or  the  shore.  We  were  a  little 
more  than  four  miles  out,  and  we  had  put  out 
more  than  half  a  mile  of  lines.  It  is  very  inter 
esting  to  see  the  different  fish  that  come  up  on 


234  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

the  hooks,  —  worthless  sculpin  and  dog-fish,  and 
good  rock-cod  and  haddock,  and  curious  stray 
creatures  which  often  even  the  fisherman  do  not 
know.  We  had  capital  good  luck  that  morning, 
and  Georgie  and  Andrew  and  I  were  all  pleased. 
I  had  a  hand-line,  and  was  fishing  part  of  the 
time,  and  Georgie  thought  very  well  of  me  when 
he  found  I  was  not  afraid  of  a  big  fish,  and,  be 
sides  that,  I  had  taken  the  oars  while  he  tended 
the  sail,  though  there  was  hardly  wind  enough  to 
make  it  worth  his  while.  It  was  about  eight 
o'clock  when  we  came  in,  and  there  was  a  horse 
and  wagon  standing  near  the  landing ;  and  we 
saw  a  woman  come  out  of  Andrew's  little  house. 
"•  There's  your  aunt  Hannah  a'read}',"  said  he 
to  Georgie  ;  and  presently  she  came  down  the 
pebbles  to  meet  the  boat,  looking  at  me  with 
much  wonder  as  I  jumped  ashore. 

"I  sh'd  think  you  might  a'  cleaned  up  your 
boat,  Andrer,  if  3^011  was  going  to  take  ladies 
out,"  said  she  graciously.  And  the  fisherman 
rejoined,  that  perhaps  she  would  have  thought  it 
looked  better  when  it  went  out  than  it  did  then  ; 
he  never  had  got  a  better  fare  o'  fish  unless  the 
trawls  had  been  set  over  night. 

There   certainly  had  been  a  good  haul ;    and, 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  235 

when  Andrew  carefully  put  those  I  had  caught 
with  the  hand-line  by  themselves,  I  asked  his 
sister  to  take  them,  if  she  liked.  u  Bless  you  !  " 
said  she,  much  pleased,  ;i  we  couldn't  eat  one  o' 
them  big  rock-cod  in  a  week.  I'll  take  a  little 
ha'dick,  if  Andrei*  '11  pick  me  one  out." 

She  was  a  tall,  large  woman,  who  had  a  direct, 
business-like  manner,  —  what  the  country  people 
would  call  a  master  smart  woman,  or  a  regular 
driver,  —  and  I  liked  her.  She  said  something 
to  her  brother  about  some  clothes  she  had  been 
making  for  him  or  for  Georgie,  and  I  went  off  to 
the  house  where  I  was  boarding  for  my  breakfast. 
I  wTas  hungry  enough,  since  I  had  had  only  a 
hurried  lunch  a  good  while  before  sunrise.  I 
came  back  late  in  the  morning,  and  found  that 
Georgie's  aunt  was  just  going  away.  I  think 
my  friends  must  have  spoken  well  of  me,  for  she 
came  out  to  meet  me  as  I  nodded  in  going  b}', 
and  said,  "  I  suppose  ye  drive  about  some?  We 
should  be  pleased  to  have  ye  come  up  to  see  us. 
We  live  right  'mongst  the  woods  ;  it  ain't  much 
of  a  place  to  ask  anybody  to."  And  she  added 
that  she  might  have  done  a  good  deal  better  for 
herself  to  have  staid  off.  But  there !  the}T  had 
the  place,  and  she  supposed  she  and  Cynthy  had 


23 G  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

done  as  well  there  as  anywhere.  Cynthy  —  well, 
she  wasn't  one  of  your  pushing  kind ;  but  I 
should  have  some  flowers,  and  perhaps  it  would 
be  a  change  for  me.  I  thanked  her,  and  said  I 
should  be  delighted  to  go.  Georgie  and  I  would 
make  her  a  call  together  some  afternoon  when  he 
wasn't  bus}7 ;  and  Georgie  actually  smiled  when 
I  looked  at  him,  and  said,  "All  right,"  and  then 
hurried  off  down  the  shore.  "  Ain't  he  an  odd 
bo}*?"  said  Miss  Hannah  West,  with  a  shadow 
of  disapproval  in  her  face.  "But  he's  just  like 
his  father  and  grandfather  before  him ;  you 
wouldn't  think  they  had  no  gratitude  nor  feelin', 
but  I  s'pose  the}'  have.  The}*  used  to  say  my 
father  never'd  forgit  a  friend,  or  forgive  an 
enemy.  Well,  I'm  much  obliged  to  3*011,  I'm 
sure,  for  taking  an  interest  in  the  bo}'."  I  said 
I  liked  him  ;  I  only  wished  I  could  do  something 
for  him.  And  then  she  said  good-day,  and  drove 
off.  I  felt  as  if  we  were  already  good  friends. 
"I'm  much  obliged  for  the  fish,"  she  turned 
round  to  sny  to  me  again,  as  she  went  away. 

One  morning,  not  very  long  afterward,  I  asked 
Georgie  if  he  could  possibly  leave  his  business 
that  afternoon,  and  he  gravely  answered  me  that 
he  could  get  away  just  as  well  as  not,  for  the 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  237 

tide  would  not  be  right  for  lobsters  until  after 
supper. 

%il  should  like  to  go  up  and  see  your  aunt," 
said  I.  kt  You  know  she  asked  me  to  come  the 
other  day  when  she  was  here." 

"I'd  like  to  go,"  said  Georgie  sedately. 
"  Father  was  going  up  this  week  ;  but  the  mack 
erel  struck  in,  and  we  couldn't  leave.  But  it's 
better'n  six  miles  up  there." 

"  That's  not  far,"  said  I.  "  I'm  going  to 
have  Captain  Donnell's  horse  and  wagon;  "  and 
Georgie  looked  much  interested. 

I  wondered  if  he  would  wear  his  oil-skin  suit ; 
but  I  was  much  amazed,  and  my  heart  was 
touched,  at  seeing  how  hard  he  had  tried  to  put 
himself  in  trim  for  the  visit.  He  had  on  his  best 
jacket  and  trousers  (which  might  have  been  most 
boys'  worst) ,  and  a  clean  calico  shirt ;  and  he 
had  scrubbed  his  freckled,  honest  little  face  and 
his  hard  little  hands,  until  they  were  as  clean  as 
possible ;  and  either  he  or  his  father  had  cut  his 
hair.  I  should  think  it  had  been  done  with  a 
knife,  and  it  looked  as  if  a  rat  had  gnawed  it. 
He  had  such  a  holiday  air !  He  reall}'  looked 
very  well ;  but  still,  if  I  were  to  have  a  picture 
of  Georgie.  it  should  be  in  the  oil-skin  fishing- 


238  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

suit.  He  had  gone  out  to  his  box,  which  was 
anchored  a  little  way  out  in  the  cove,  and  had 
chosen  two  fine  lobsters  which  he  had  tied  to 
gether  with  a  bit  of  fish-line.  They  were  lazily 
moving  their  claws  and  feelers  ;  and  his  father, 
who  had  come  in  with  his  boat  not  long  before, 
added  from  his  fare  of  fish  three  plump  mackerel. 

"  The3''re  alwaj's  glad  to  get  new  fish,"  said 
he.  "  The  girls  can't  abide  a  fish  that's  corned, 
and  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  send  'em  up  any 
mackerel  before.  Ye  see,  the}'  live  on  a  cross 
road,  and  the  fish-carts  don't  go  by."  And  I 
told  him  I  was  veiy  glad  to  carry  them,  or  any 
thing  else  he  would  like  to  send.  "Mind  3-0111* 
manners,  now,  Georgie,"  said  he,  "and  don't 
be  forrard.  You  might  split  up  some  kindlin's 
for  y'r  aunts,  and  do  whatever  the}'  want  of  ye. 
Boys  ain't  made  just  to  look  at,  so  ye  be  handy, 
will  3'e?"  And  Georgie  nodded  solemnly. 
The3*  seemed  very  fond  of  each  other,  and  I 
looked  back  some  time  afterward  to  see  the  fish 
erman  still  standing  there  to  watch  his  bo}'.  He 
was  used  to  his  being  out  at  sea  alone  for  hours  ; 
but  this  might  be  a  great  risk  to  let  him  go  off 
inland  to  sta3'  all  the  afternoon. 

The  road  crossed  the  salt-marshes  for  the  first 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  239 

mile,  and,  when  we  had  struck  the  higher  land,  we 
soon  entered  the  pine-woods,  which  cover  a  great 
part  of  that  country.  It  had  been  raining  in  the 
morning  for  a  little  while  ;  and  the  trunks  of  the 
trees  were  still  damp,  and  the  underbrush  was 
shining  wet,  and  sent  out  a  sweet,  fresh  smell.  I 
spoke  of  it,  and  Georgic  told  me  that  sometimes 
this  fragrance  blew  far  out  to  sea,  and  then  you 
knew  the  wind  was  north-west. 

"There's  the  big  pine  you  sight  Minister's 
Ledge  by,"  said  he,  "when  that  comes  in  range 
over  the  white  schoolhouse,  about  two  miles  out." 

The  lobsters  were  clashing  their  pegged  claws 
together  in  the  back  of  the  wagon,  and  Georgie 
sometimes  looked  over  at  them  to  be  sure  they 
were  all  right.  Of  course  I  had  given  him  the 
reins  when  we  first  started,  and  he  was  delighted 
because  we  saw  some  squirrels,  and  even  a  rabbit, 
which  scurried  across  the  road  as  if  I  had  been  a 
fie  IT  dragon,  and  Georgie  something  worse. 

We  presently  came  in  sight  of  a  house  close  by 
the  road.  —  an  old-looking  place,  with  a  ledgy, 
forlorn  field  stretching  out  behind  it  toward  some 
low  woods.  There  were  high  white-birch  poles 
holding  up  thick  tangles  of  hop-vines,  and  at  the 
side  there  were  sunflowers  straggling  about  as  if 


240  OLD   FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

they  had  come  up  from  seed  scattered  by  the 
wind.  Some  of  them  were  close  together,  as  if 
they  were  whispering  to  each  other  ;  and  their  big, 
yellow  faces  were  all  turned  toward  the  front  of 
the  house,  where  people  were  already  collected 
as  if  there  were  a  funeral. 

"It's  the  auction,"  said  Georgie  with  great 
satisfaction.  "  I  heard  'em  talking  about  it  down 
at  the  shore  this  morning.  There's  'Lisha  Downs 
now.  He  started  off  just  before  we  did.  That's 
his  fish-cart  over  by  the  well." 

"  What  is  going  to  be  sold?  "  said  I. 

"All  the  stuff,"  said  Georgie,  as  if  he  were 
much  pleased.  "She's  going  off  up  to  Boston 
with  her  son." 

"I  think  we  had  better  stop,"  said  I,  for  I 
saw  Mrs.  'Lisha  Downs,  who  was  one  of  my 
acquaintances  at  the  shore,  and  I  wished  to  see 
what  was  going  on,  besides  giving  Georgie  a 
chance  at  the  festivities.  So  we  tied  the  horse, 
and  went  toward  the  house,  and  I  found  several 
people  whom  I  knew  a  little.  Mrs.  Downs  shook 
hands  with  me  as  formally  as  if  we  had  not  talked 
for  some  time  as  I  went  by  her  house  to  the 
shore,  just  after  breakfast.  She  presented  me  to 
several  of  her  friends  with  whom  she  had  been 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  241 

talking  as  I  came  up.  "Let  me  make  3*011  ac 
quainted,"  she  said  ;  and  ever}'  time  I  bowed  she 
bowed  too,  unconscious!}',  and  seemed  a  little  ill 
at  ease  and  embarrassed,  but  luckily  the  cere 
mony  was  soon  over.  "  I  thought  I  would  stop 
for  a  few  minutes,"  said  I  by  way  of  apology. 
" 1  didn't  know  why  the  people  were  here  until 
Georgie  told  me." 

"  She's  going  to  move  up  to  Boston  'long  of 
her  son,"  said  one  of  the  women,  who  looked 
very  pleasant  and  very  tired.  "I  think  myself 
it's  a  bad  plan  to  pull  old  folks  up  by  the  roots. 
There's  a  niece  o'  hers  that  would  have  been  glad 
to  stop  with  her,  and  do  for  the  old  lady.  But 
John,  he's  very  high-handed,  and  wants  it  his 
way,  and  he  says  his  mother  sha'n't  live  in  no 
such  a  place  as  this.  Pie  makes  a  sight  o'  money. 
He's  got  out  a  patent,  and  they  say  he's  just 
bought  a  new  house  that  cost  him  eleven  thou 
sand  dollars.  But  old  Mis'  Wallis,  she's  wonted 
here  ;  and  she  was  telling  of  me  yesterday  she 
was  only  going  to  please  John.  He  says  he 
wants  her  up  there,  where  she'll  be  more  com 
fortable,  and  see  something." 

"He  means  well,"  said  another  woman  whom 
I  did  not  know ;  ' '  but  folks  about  here  never 


242  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

thought  no  great  of  his  judgment.  He's  put  up 
some  splendid  stones  in  the  burying-lot  to  his 
father  and  his  sister  Miranda  that  died.  I  used 
to  go  to  school  'long  of  Miranda.  She'd  have 
been  pleased  to  go  to  Boston  ;  she  was  that  kind. 
But  there!  mother  was  saying  last  night,  what 
if  his  business  took  a  turn,  and  he  lost  every 
thing !  Mother's  took  it  dreadfully  to  heart ; 
she  and  Mis'  Wallis  was  always  mates  as  long 
ago  as  they  can. recollect/' 

It  was  evident  that  the  old  widow  was  both 
pitied  and  envied  by  her  friends  on  account  of 
her  bettered  fortunes,  and  they  came  up  to  speak 
to  her  with  more  or  less  seriousness,  as  befitted 
the  occasion.  She  looked  at  me  with  great  curi 
osity,  but  Mrs.  Downs  told  her  who  I  was,  and  I 
had  a  sudden  instinct  to  say  how  sorry  I  was  for 
her,  but  I  was  afraid  it  might  appear  intrusive 
on  so  short  an  acquaintance.  She  was  a  thin  old 
soul  who  looked  as  if  she  had  had  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  in  her  day,  and  as  if  she  had  been 
very  poor  and  very  anxious.  "  Yes,"  said  she 
to  some  one  who  had  come  from  a  distance,  "  it 
does  come  hard  to  go  off.  Home  is  home,  and 
I  seem  to  hate  to  sell  off  nry  things ;  but  I  sup 
pose  they  would  look  queer  up  to  Boston.  John 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  243 

I  won't  have  no  idea  of  the  house  until  I 
see  it ;  "  and  she  looked  proud  and  important  for 
a  minute,  but,  as  some  one  brought  an  old  chair 
out  at  the  door,  her  face  fell  again.  "  Oh,  dear  !  " 
said  she,  "  I  should  like  to  keep  that !  it  belonged 
to  my  mother.  It's  most  wore  out  anyway.  I 
guess  I'll  let  somebody  keep  it  for  me ;  "  and  she 
hurried  off  despairingly  to  find  her  son,  while  we 
went  into  the  house. 

There  is  so  little  to  interest  the  people  who  live 
on  those  quiet,  secluded  farms,  that  an  event  of 
this  kind  gives  great  pleasure.  I  know  they  have 
not  done  talking  yet  about  the  sale,  of  the  bar 
gains  that  were  made,  or  the  goods  that  brought 
more  than  they  were  worth.  And  then  the  wo 
men  had  the  chance  of  going  all  about  the  house, 
and  committing  every  detail  of  its  furnishings  to 
their  tenacious  memories.  It  is  a  curiosity  one 
grows  more  and  more  willing  to  pardon,  for  there 
is  so  little  to  amuse  them  in  every-day  life.  I 
wonder  if  any  one  has  not  often  been  struck,  as 
I  have,  by  the  sadness  and  hopelessness  which 
seems  to  overshadow  man}'  of  the  people  who  live 
on  the  loneh'  farms  in  the  outskirts  of  small  New- 
England  villages.  It  is  most  noticeable  among 
the  elderly  women.  Their  talk  is  very  cheerless, 


244  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

and  they  have  a  morbid  interest  in  sicknesses  and 
deaths  ;  they  tell  each  other  long  stories  about  such 
things  ;  they  are  very  forlorn  ;  they  dwell  persist 
ently  upon  any  troubles  which  they  have  ;  and 
their  petty  disputes  with  each  other  have  a  tragic 
hold  upon  their  thoughts,  sometimes  being  handed 
down  from  one  generation  to  the  next.  Is  it 
because  their  world  is  so  small,  and  life  affords 
so  little  amusement  and  pleasure,  and  is  at  best 
such  a  dreary  round  of  the  dullest  housekeeping? 
There  is  a  lack  of  real  merriment,  and  the  fun  is 
an  odd,  rough  way  of  joking  ;  it  is  a  stupid,  heavy 
sort  of  fun,  though  there  is  much  of  a  certain 
quaint  humor,  and  once  in  a  while  a  flash  of  wit. 
I  came  upon  a  short,  stout  old  sister  in  one 
room,  making  all  the  effort  she  possibly  could  to 
see  what  was  on  the  upper  shelves  of  a  closet. 
We  were  the  only  persons  there,  and  she  looked 
longingly  at  a  convenient  chair,  and  I  know  she 
wished  I  would  go  away.  But  1113-  heart  suddenly 
went  out  toward  an  old  dark-green  Delft  bowl 
which  I  saw,  and  I  asked  her  if  she  would  be 
kind  enough  to  let  me  take  it,  as  if  I  thought  she 
were  there  for  the  purpose.  ''I'll  bring  you  a 
chair,"  said  I;  and  she  said,  "Certain,  dear." 
And  I  helped  her  up,  and  I'm  sure  she  had  the 


A  B IT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  245 

good  look  she  had  coveted  while  I  took  the  bowl 
to  the  window.  It  was  badly  cracked,  and  had 
been  mended  with  putty  ;  but  the  rich,  dull  color 
of  it  was  exquisite.  One  often  comes  across  a 
beautiful  old  stray  bit  of  china  in  such  a  place  as 
this,  and  I  imagined  it  filled  with  apple-blossoms 
or  wild  roses.  Mrs.  Wallis  wished  to  give  it  to 
me,  she  said  it  wasn't  good  for  any  thing ;  and, 
finding  she  did  not  care  for  it,  I  bought  it ;  and 
now  it  is  perched  high  in  my  room,  with  the 
cracks  discreetly  turned  to  the  wall.  "  Seems  to 
me  she  never  had  thrown  away  nothing,"  said 
my  friend,  whom  I  found  still  standing  on  the 
chair  when  I  came  back.  "  Here's  some  pieces 
of  a  pitcher  :  I  wonder  when  she  broke  it !  I've 
heard  her  say  it  was  one  her  grandmother  give 
her,  though.  The  old  lady  bought  it  to  a  vandoo 
down  at  old  Mis'  Walton  Peters's  after  she  died, 
so  Mis'  Wallis  said.  I  guess  I'll  speak  to  her, 
and  see  if  she  wants  every  thing  sold  that's 
here." 

There  was  a  ver}^  great  pathos  to  me  about 
this  old  home.  It  must  have  been  a  hard  place 
to  get  a  living  in,  both  for  men  and  women,  with 
its  wretched  farming-land,  and  the  house  itself  so 
cold  and  thin  and  worn  out.  I  could  understand 


246  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

that  the  son  was  in  a  liuny  to  get  his  mother 
awa}'  from  it.  I  was  sure  that  the  boyhood  he 
had  spent  there  must  have  been  uncomfortable, 
and  that  he  did  not  look  back  to  it  with  much 
pleasure.  There  is  an  immense  contrast  between 
even  a  moderately  comfortable  cit}"  house  and 
such  a  place  as  this.  No  wonder  that  he  remem 
bered  the  bitter  cold  mornings,  the  frost  and  chill, 
and  the  dark,  and  the  hard  work,  and  wished  his 
mother  to  leave  them  all  behind,  as  he  had  done  ! 
He  did  not  care  for  the  few  plain  bits  of  furniture  ; 
why  should  he?  and  he  had  been  away  so  long, 
that  he  had  lost  his  interest  in  the  neighbors. 
Perhaps  this  might  come  back  to  him  again  as  he 
grew  older  ;  but  now  he  moved  about  among  them, 
in  his  handsome  but  somewhat  flashy  clothes, 
with  a  look  that  told  me  he  felt  conscious  of  his 
superior  station  in  life.  I  did  not  altogether  like 
his  looks,  though  somebody  said  admiringly,  as  he 
went  by,  "  They  sa}'  he's  worth  as  much  as  thirty 
thousand  dollars  a'read}*.  He's  smart  as  a  whip." 
But,  while  I  did  not  wonder  at  the  son's  wish 
ing  his  mother  to  go  away,  I  also  did  not  wonder 
at  her  being  unwilling  to  leave  the  dull  little 
house  where  she  had  spent  so  much  of  her  life. 
I  was  afraid  no  other  house  in  the  world  would 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  247 

ever  seem  like  home  to  her :  she  was  a  part  of 
the  old  place  ;  she  had  worn  the  doors  smooth  by 
the  touch  of  her  hands,  and  she  had  scrubbed  the 
floors,  and  walked  over  them,  until  the  knots  stood 
up  high  in  the  pine  boards.  The  old  clock  had 
been  unscrewed  from  the  wall,  and  stood  on  a 
table  ;  and  when  I  heard  its  loud  and  anxious  tick, 
my  first  thought  was  one  of  pit}'  for  the  poor 
thing,  for  fear  it  might  be  homesick,  like  its  mis 
tress.  When  I  went  out  again,  I  was  very  sorry 
for  old  Mrs.  Wallis :  she  looked  so  worried  and 
excited,  and  as  if  this  new  turn  of  affairs  in  her 
life  was  too  strange  and  unnatural ;  it  bewildered 
her,  and  she  could  not  understand  it ;  she  only 
knew  every  thing  was  going  to  be  different. 

Georgie  was  by  himself,  as  usual,  looking  grave 
and  intent.  He  had  gone  aloft  on  the  wheel  of  a 
clumsy  great  ox-cart  in  which  some  of  the  men 
had  come  to  the  auction,  and  he  was  looking  over 
people's  heads,  and  seeing  eveiy  thing  that  was 
sold.  I  saw  he  was  not  read}'  to  come  away,  so 
I  was  not  in  a  hurry.  I  heard  Mrs.  AVallis  say 
to  one  of  her  friends,  "You  just  go  in  and  take 
that  rug  with  the  flowers  on't,  and  go  and  put  it 
in  your  wagon.  It's  right  beside  nry  chist  that's 
packed  ready  to  go.  John  told  me  to  give  away 


248  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

any  thing  I  had  a  mind  to.  He  don't  care  noth 
ing  about  the  money.  I  hooked  that  rug  four 
year  ago ;  it's  most  new  ;  the  red  of  the  roses 
was  made  out  of  a  dress  of  Miranda's.  I  kept  it 
a  good  while  after  she  died ;  but  it  was  no  use  to 
let  it  lay.  I've  given  a  good  deal  to  my  sister 
Stiles :  she  was  over  here  helping  me  yesterday. 
There !  it's  all  come  upon  me  so  sudden !  I 
s'pose  I  shall  wish,  after  I  get  away,  that  I  had 
done  things  different ;  but,  after  I  knew  the  farm 
was  goin'  to  be  sold,  I  didn't  seem  to  realize  I  was 
goin'  to  break  up,  until  John  came,  da}'  before 
yesterday." 

She  was  very  friendly  with  me,  when  I  said 
I  should  think  she  would  be  sony  to  go  away ; 
but  she  seemed  glad  to  find  I  had  been  in  Boston 
a  great  deal,  and  that  I  was  not  at  all  unhappy 
there.  "But  I  suppose  }'ou  have  folks  there," 
said  she,  "  though  I  never  supposed  the}'  was  so 
sociable  as  they  be  here,  and  I  ain't  one  that's 
easy  to  make  acquaintance.  It's  different  with 
young  folks  ;  and  then  in  case  o' sickness  I  should 
hate  to  have  strange  folks  round  me.  It  seems 
as  if  I  never  set  so  much  by  the  old  place  as  I  do 
now  I'm  goin'  awa}'.  I  used  to  wish  '  he  '  would 
sell,  and  move  over  to  the  Port,  it  was  such  hard 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  249 

work  getting  along  when  the  child' n  was  small. 
And  there's  one  of  m\'  boys  that  run  away  to  sea, 
and  never  was  heard  from.  I've  always  thought 
he  might  come  back,  though  everybody  give  him 
up  years  ago.  I  can't  help  thinking  what  if 
he  should  come  back,  and  find  I  wa'n't  here ! 
There !  I'm  glad  to  please  John :  he  sets  every 
thing  by  me,  and  I  s'pose  he  thinks  he's  going  to 
make  a  spry  }"oung  woman  of  me.  Well,  it's 
natural.  Every  thing  looks  fair  to  him,  and  he 
thinks  he  can  have  the  world  just  as  he  wants  it ; 
but  /know  it's  a  world  o'  change,  — a  world  o' 
change  and  loss.  And,  you  see,  I  shall  have 
to  go  to  a  strange  mcetin'  up  there. — "Why, 
Mis'  Sands  !  I  am  pleased  to  see  you.  How  did 
you  get  word?"  And  then  Mrs.  Wallis  made 
another  careful  apology  for  moving  away.  She 
seemed  to  be  so  afraid  some  one  would  think  she 
had  not  been  satisfied  with  the  neighborhood. 

The  auctioneer  was  a  disagreeable-looking 
man,  with  a  most  unpleasant  voice,  which  gave 
me  a  sense  of  discomfort,  the  little  old  house 
and  its  surroundings  seemed  so  grave  and  silent 
and  loneh'.  It  was  like  having  all  the  noise  and 
confusion  on  a  Sunda3T.  The  house  was  so  shut 
in  by  the  trees,  that  the  only  outlook  to  the 


250  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

world  be}'ond  was  a  narrow  gap  in  the  pines, 
through  which  one  could  see  the  sea,  bright,  blue 
and  warm  with  sunshine,  that  summer  da}'. 

There  was  something  wistful  about  the  place, 
as  there  must  have  been  about  the  people  who 
had  lived  there ;  yet,  hungry  and  unsatisfied  as 
her  life  might  have  been  in  many  ways,  the  pool- 
old  woman  dreaded  the  change. 

The  thought  flashed  through  my  mind  that  we 
all  have  more  or  less  of  this  same  feeling  about 
leaving  this  world  for  a  better  one.  We  have 
the  certainty  that  we  shall  be  a  great  deal  happier 
in  heaven  ;  but  we  cling  despairingly  to  the  famil 
iar  things  of  this  life.  God  pity  the  people  who 
find  it  so  hard  to  believe  what  he  says,  and  who 
are  afraid  to  die,  and  are  afraid  of  the  things 
they  do  not  understand !  I  kept  thinking  over 
and  over  of  what  Mrs.  Wallis  had  said  :  '  A  world 
of  change  and  loss  !  '  What  should  we  do  if  we 
did  not  have  God's  love  to  make  up  for  it,  and  if 
we  did  not  know  something  of  heaven  already  ? 

It  seemed  very  doleful  that  eveiybody  should 
look  on  the  dark  side  of  the  Widow  Wallis' s  flit 
ting,  and  I  tried  to  suggest  to  her  some  of  the 
pleasures  and  advantages  of  it,  once  when  I  had 
a  chance.  And  indeed  she  was  proud  enough  to 


A  SIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  251 

be  going  away  with  her  rich  son  ;  it  was  not  like 
selling  her  goods  because  she  was  too  poor  to 
keep  the  old  home  any  longer.  I  hoped  the  son 
would  always  be  prosperous,  and  that  the  son's 
wife  would  alwaj'S  be  kind,  and  not  be  ashamed 
of  her,  or  think  she  was  in  the  wa}T.  But  I  am 
afraid  it  may  be  a  somewhat  uneasy  idleness,  and 
that  there  will  not  be  much  beside  her  knitting- 
work  to  remind  her  of  the  old  routine.  She  will 
even  miss  going  back  and  forward  from  the  old 
well  in  "storm  and  sunshine  ;  she  will  miss  looking 
after  the  chickens,  and  her  slow  walks  about  the 
little  place,  or  out  to  a  neighbor's  for  a  bit  of 
gossip,  with  the  old  brown  checked  handkerchief 
over  her  head ;  and  when  the  few  homely,  faith 
ful  old  flowers  come  up  next  year  by  the  door 
step,  there  will  be  nobody  to  care  any  thing  about 
them. 

I  said  good-bj',  and  got  into  the  wagon,  and 
Georgie  clambered  in  after  me  with  a  look  of 
great  importance,  and  we  drove  away.  He  was 
veiy  talkative ;  the  unusual  excitement  of  the 
day  was  not  without  its  effect.  He  had  a  good 
deal  to  tell  me  about  the  people  I  had  seen, 
though  I  had  to  ask  a  good  man}'  questions. 

"  Who  was  the  thin  old  fellow,  with  the  black 


252  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

coat,  faded  yellow-green  on  the  shoulders,  who 
was  talking  to  Skipper  Downs  about  the  dog 
fish?" 

"  That's  old  Cap'n  Abiah  Lane,"  said  Georgie  ; 
"lives  over  toward  Little  Beach,  —  him  that 
wTas  cast  away  in  the  fog  in  a  doiy  down  to  the 
Banks  once  ;  like  to  have  starved  to  death  be 
fore  he  got  picked  up.  I've  heard  him  tell  all 
about  it.  Don't  look  as  if  he'd  ever  had  enough 
to  eat  since  !  "  said  the  boy  grimly.  "  He  used 
to  corne  over  a  good  deal  last  winter,  and  go  out 
after  cod  'long  o'  father  and  me.  His  boats  all 
went  adrift  in  the  big  storm  in  November,  and 
he  never  heard  nothing  about  'em ;  guess  the}' 
got  stove  against  the  rocks." 

We  had  still  more  than  three  miles  to  drive 
over  a  lonel}T  part  of  the  road,  where  there  was 
scarcely  a  house,  and  where  the  woods  had  been 
cut  off  more  or  less,  so  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  the  uneven  ground,  which  was  not  fit  for 
even  a  pasture  yet.  But  it  was  not  without  a 
beauty  of  its  own ;  for  the  little  hills  and  hollows 
were  covered  thick  with  brakes  and  ferns  and 
bushes,  and  in  the  swamps  the  cat-tails  and  all 
the  rushes  were  growing  in  stiff  and  stately  ranks, 
so  green  and  tall ;  while  the  birds  flew  up,  or 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  253 

skimmed  across  them  as  we  went  by.  It  was 
like  a  town  of  birds,  there  were  so  many.  It  is 
strange  how  one  is  always  coming  upon  families 
and  neighborhoods  of  wild  creatures  in  the  unset 
tled  countiy  places ;  it  is  so  much  like  one's 
going  on  longer  journeys  about  the  world,  and 
finding  town  after  town  with  its  own  interests, 
each  so  sufficient  for  itself. 

We  struck  the  edge  of  the  farming-land  again, 
after  a  while,  and  I  saw  three  great  pines  that 
had  been  born  to  good  luck  in  this  world,  since 
the}*  had  sprouted  in  good  soil,  and  had  been  left 
to  grow  as  fast  as  they  pleased.  They  lifted 
their  heads  proudly  against  the  blue  sky,  these 
rich  trees,  and  I  admired  them  as  much  as  they 
could  have  expected.  They  must  have  been  a 
landmark  for  mam'  miles  to  the  westward,  for 
they  grew  on  high  land,  and  they  could  pit}*, 
from  a  distance,  any  number  of  their  poor  rela 
tions  who  were  just  able  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  and  had  grown  up  thin  and  hungry  in 
crowded  woods.  But,  though  their  lower  branches 
might  snap  and  crackle  at  a  touch,  their  tops 
were  brave  and  green,  and  the}'  kept  up  appear 
ances,  at  any  rate  ;  these  poorer  pines. 

Georgie  pointed  out  his  aunts'  house  to  me, 


254  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

after  a  while.  It  was  not  half  so  forlorn-looking 
as  the  others,  for  there  wrere  so  marry  flowers  in 
bloom  about  it  of  the  gayest  kind,  and  a  little 
yellow-and-white  dog  came  down  the  road  to 
bark  at  us  ;  but  his  manner  was  such  that  it 
seemed  like  an  unusually  cordial  welcome  rather 
than  an  indignant  repulse.  I  noticed  four  jolly 
old  apple-trees  near  by,  which  looked  as  if  they 
might  be  the  last  of  a  once  flourishing  orchard. 
They  were  standing  in  a  row,  in  exactly  the  same 
position,  with  their  heads  thrown  gayly  back,  as 
if  they  were  all  dancing  in  an  old-fashioned  reel ; 
and,  after  the  forward  and  back,  one  might  expect 
them  to  turn  partners  gallantly.  I  laughed  aloud 
when  I  caught  sight  of  them :  there  was  some 
thing  veiy  funny  in  their  looks,  so  jovial  and 
whole-hearted,  with  a  sober,  cheerful  pleasure, 
as  if  they  gave  their  whole  minds  to  it.  It  was 
like  some  old  gentlemen  and  ladies  who  catch  the 
spirit  of  the  thing,  and  dance  with  the  rest  at  a 
Christmas  part}*. 

Miss  Hannah  West  first  looked  out  of  the 
window,  and  then  came  to  meet  us,  looking  as 
if  she  were  glad  to  see  us.  Georgic  had  nothing 
whatever  to  say ;  but,  after  I  had  followed  his 
aunt  into  the  house,  he  began  to  work  like  a 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  255 

beaver  at  once,  as  if  it  were  any  thing  but  a 
friendly  visit  that  could  be  given  up  to  such 
trifles  as  conversation,  or  as  if  he  were  any  thing 
but  a  boy.  He  brought  the  fish  and  lobsters  into 
the  outer  kitchen,  though  I  was  afraid  our  loiter 
ing  at  the  auction  must  have  cost  them  their  first 
freshness ;  and  then  he  carried  the  axe  to  the 
wood-pile,  and  began  to  chop  up  the  small  white- 
pine  sticks  and  brush  which  form  the  summer 
fire- wood  at  the  farm-houses,  —  crow-sticks  and 
underbrush,  a  good  deal  of  it,  —  but  it  makes  a 
hot  little  blaze  while  it  lasts. 

I  had  not  seen  Miss  Cynthia  West,  the  younger 
sister,  before,  and  I  found  the  two  women  very 
unlike.  Miss  Hannah  was  evidently  the  capable 
business-member  of  the  household,  and  she  had 
a  loud  voice,  and  went  about  as  if  she  were  in  a 
hurry.  Poor  Cynthia !  I  saw  at  first  that  she 
was  one  of  the  faded-looking  country-women  who 
have  a  hard  time,  and  who,  if  they  had  grown  up 
in  the  midst  of  a  more  luxurious  wa}*  of  living, 
would  have  been  frail  and  delicate  and  refined, 
and  entirely  lad}~-rike.  But,  as  it  was,  she  was 
somewhat  in  the  shadow  of  her  sister,  and  felt  as 
if  she  were  not  of  very  much  use  or  consequence 
in  the  world,  I  have  no  doubt.  She  showed  me 


256  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

some  pretty  picture-frames  she  had  made  out  of 
pine-cones  and  hemlock-cones  and  alder-burs ; 
but  her  chief  glory  and  pride  was  a  silly  little 
model  of  a  house,  in  perforated  card-board,  which 
she  had  cut  and  worked  after  a  pattern  that  came 
in  a  magazine.  It  must  have  cost  her  a  great 
deal  of  work  ;  but  it  parti}'  satisfied  her  great 
longing  for  pretty  things,  and  for  the  daintiness 
and  art  that  she  had  an  instinct  toward,  and 
never  had  known.  It  stood  on  the  best-room 
table,  with  a  few  books,  which  I  suppose  she 
had  read  over  and  over  again  ;  and  in  the  room, 
beside,  were  green  paper  curtains  with  a  land 
scape  on  the  outside,  and  some  chairs  ranged 
stiffly  against  the  walls,  some  shells,  and  an 
ostrich's  egg,  with  a  ship  drawn  on  it,  on  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  ever  so  many  rugs  on  the  floor, 
of  most  ambitious  designs,  which  the}'  had  made 
in  winter.  I  know  the  making  of  them  had  been  a 
great  pleasure  to  Miss  Cynthia,  and  I  was  sure  it 
was  she  who  had  taken  care  of  the  garden,  and 
was  alwa}'s  at  much  pains  to  get  seeds  and  slips 
in  the  spring. 

She  told  me  how  much  they  had  wished  that 
Georgie  had  come  to  live  with  them  after  his 
mother  died.  It  would  have  been  very  handy  for 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  257 

them  to  have  him  in  winter  too ;  but  it  was  no 
use  trying  to  get  him  away  from  his  father ;  and 
neither  of  them  were  contented  if  they  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  sea.  "  He's  a  dreadful  odd  boy, 
and  so  old  for  his  years.  Hannah,  she  says  he's 
older  now  than  I  be,"  and  she  blushed  a  little  as 
she  looked  up  at  me ;  while  for  a  moment  the 
tears  came  into  my  eyes,  as  I  thought  of  this 
poor,  plain  woman,  who  had  such  a  capacity  for 
enjoyment,  and  whose  life  had  been  so  dull,  and 
far  apart  from  the  pleasures  and  satisfactions 
which  had  made  so  much  of  nry  own  life.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  had  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  deserved,  while  this  poor  soul  was  almost 
beggared.  I  seemed  to  know  all  about  her  life 
in  a  flash,  and  pitied  her  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  Yet  I  suppose  she  would  not  have  changed 
places  with  me  for  am'  thing,  or  with  anybody 
else,  for  that  matter. 

Miss  Cynthia. had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  her 
mother,  who  had  been  a  schoolmate  of  Mrs. 
Wallis's  —  I  had  been  telling  them  what  I  could 
about  the  auction.  She  told  me  that  she  had 
died  the  spring  before,  and  said  how  much  they 
missed  her ;  and  Hannah  broke  in  upon  her  re 
grets  in  her  brusque,  downright  way  :  "  I  should 


258  OLD   FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

have  liked  to  kep'  her  if  she'd  lived  to  be  a  hun 
dred,  but  I  don't  wish  her  back.  She'd  had  con 
siderable  many  strokes,  and  she  couldn't  help  her 
self  much  of  any.  She'd  got  to  be  rising  eighty, 
and  her  mind  was  a  good  deal  broke,"  she  added 
conclusively,  after  a  short  silence  ;  while  Cynthia 
looked  sorrowfully  out  of  the  window,  and  we 
heard  the  sound  of  Georgie's  axe  at  the  other 
side  of  the  house,  and  the  wild,  sweet  whistle  of 
a  bird  that  flew  overhead.  I  suppose  one  of  the 
sisters  was  just  as  sorry  as  the  other  in  realit}'. 

"Now  I  want  3^011  and  Georgie  to  stop  and 
have  some  tea.  I'll  get  it  good  and  early,"  said 
Hannah,  starting  suddenly  from  her  chair,  and 
beginning  to  bustle  about  again,  after  she  had 
asked  me  about  some  people  at  home  whom  she 
knew.  "C}'nthy!  Perhaps  she'd  like  to  walk 
round  out  doors  a  spell.  It's  breezing  up,  and 
it'll  be  cooler  than  it  is  in  the  house.  —  No  :  you 
needn't  think  I  shall  be  put  out  by  3'our  stop 
ping  ;  but  3'ou'll  have  to  take  us  just  as  we  be. 
Georgie  always  calculates  to  stop  when  he  comes 
up.  I  guess  he's  made  off  for  the  woods.  I  see 
him  go  across  the  lot  a  few  minutes  ago." 

So  Cynthia  put  on  a  discouraged-looking  ging 
ham  sun-bonnet,  which  drooped  over  her  face, 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE,  259 

and  gave  her  a  more  appealing  look  than  ever, 
and  we  went  over  to  the  pine-woods,  which  were 
beautiful  that  day.  She  showed  me  a  little  water 
fall  made  by  a  brook  that  came  over  a  high  ledge 
of  rock  covered  with  moss,  and  here  and  there 
tufts  of  fresh  green  ferns.  It  grew  late  in  the 
afternoon,  and  it  was  pleasant  there  in  the  shade, 
with  the  noise  of  the  brook  and  the  wind  in  the 
pines,  that  sounded  like  the  sea.  The  wood- 
thrushes  began  to  sing,  —  and  who  could  have 
better  music  ? 

Miss  Cynthia  told  me  that  it  alwa}~s  made  her 
think  of  once  when  she  was  a  little  girl  to  hear 
the  thrushes.  She  had  run  away,  and  fallen  into 
the  ma'sh ;  and  her  mother  had  sent  her  to  bed 
quick  as  she  got  home,  though  it  was  only  four 
o'clock.  And  she  was  so  ashamed,  because  there 
was  company  there,  —  some  of  her  father's  folks 
from  over  to  Eliot ;  and  then  she  heard  the 
thrushes  begin  to  call  after  a  while,  and  she 
thought  they  were  talking  about  her,  and  they 
knew  she  had  been  whipped  and  sent  to  bed. 
"  I'd  been  gone  all  day  since  morning.  I  had  a 
great  way  of  straying  off  in  the  woods,"  said  she. 
'"  I  suppose  mother  was  put  to  it  when  she  see 
me  coming  in,  all  bog-mud,  right  before  the  com 
pany." 


260  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

We  came  by  my  friends,  the  apple-trees,  on 
our  return,  and  I  saw  a  row  of  old-fashioned 
square  bee-hives  near  them,  which  I  had  not 
noticed  before.  Miss  Cynthia  told  me  that  the 
bee  money  was  always  hers  ;  but  she  lost  a  good 
many  swarms  on  account  of  the  woods  being  so 
near,  and  they  had  a  trick  of  swarming  Sundays, 
after  she'd  gone  to  meeting ;  and,  besides,  the 
miller-bugs  spoilt  'em  ;  and  some  years  they  didn't 
make  enough  honey  to  live  on,  so  she  didn't  get 
any  at  all.  I  saw  some  bits  of  black  cloth  flutter 
ing  over  the  little  doors  where  the  bees  went  in 
and  out,  and  the  sight  touched  me  strangely.  I 
did  not  know  that  the  old  custom  still  lingered  of 
putting  the  hives  in  mourning,  and  telling  the 
bees  when  there  had  been  a  death  in  the  family, 
so  they  would  not  fly  away.  I  said,  half  to  my 
self,  a  line  or  two  from  Whittier's  poem,  which  I 
always  thought  one  of  the  loveliest  in  the  world, 
and  this  seemed  almost  the  realization  of  it. 
Miss  Cynthia  asked  me  wistfully,  "Is  that  in  a 
book?"  I  told  her  yes,  and  that  she  should 
have  it  next  time  I  came  up,  or  had  a  chance  of 
sending  it.  "  I've  seen  a  good  many  pieces  of 
poetry  that  Mr.  Whittier  wrote,"  said  she. 
"I've  got  some  that  I  cut  out  of  the  paper  a 
good  while  ago.  I  think  every  thing  of  'em." 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  261 

' '  I  put  the  black  on  the  hives  myself. ' '  said 
she.  "  It  was  for  mother,  you  know.  She  did 
it  when  father  died.  But  when  my  brother  was 
lost,  we  didn't,  because  we  never  knew  just  when 
it  was ;  the  schooner  was  missing,  and  it  was  a 
good  while  before  they  give  her  up." 

"  I  wish  we  had  some  neighbors  in  sight,"  said 
she  once.  "I'd  like  to  see  a  light  when  I  look 
out  after  dark.  Now,  at  nrv  aunt's,  over  to 
Eliot,  the  house  stands  high,  and  when  it's  com 
ing  dark  3*011  can  see  all  the  folks  lighting  up. 
It  seems  real  sociable." 

We  lingered  a  little  while  under  the  apple-trees, 
and  watched  the  wise  little  bees  go  and  come  ; 
and  Miss  Cynthia  told  me  how  much  Georgie  was 
like  his  grandfather,  who  was  so  steacVy  and  quiet, 
and  always  right  after  his  business.  "He  never 
was  ugly  to  us,  as  I  know  of,"  said  she  ;  "  but  I 
was  always  sort  of  'fraid  of  father.  Hannah, 
she  used  to  talk  to  him  free's  she  would  to  me  ; 
and  he  thought,  's  long's  Hannah  did  any  thing, 
it  was  all  right.  I  always  held  by  my  mother 
the  most ;  and  when  father  was  took  sick,  —  that 
was  in  the  winter,  —  I  sent  right  off  for  Hannah 
to  come  home.  I  used  to  be  scared  to  death, 
when  he'd  want  any  thing  done,  for  fear  I 


262  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

shouldn't  do  it  right.  Mother,  she'd  had  a  fall, 
and  couldn't  get  about  very  well.  Hannah  had 
good  advantages.  She  went  off  keeping  school 
when  she  wasn't  but  seventeen,  and  she  saved  up 
some  inone}*,  and  boarded  over  to  the  Port  after 
a  while,  and  learned  the  tailoress  trade.  She  was 
alwa}Ts  called  very  smart, — you  see  she's  got 
ways  different  from  me  ;  and  she  was  over  to  the 
Port  several  winters.  She  never'  said  a  word 
about  it,  but  there  was  a  }"oung  man  over  there 
that  wanted  to  keep  company  with  her.  He  was 
going  out  first  mate  of  a  new  ship  that  wras  build 
ing.  But,  when  she  got  word  from  me  about 
father,  she  come  right  home,  and  that  was  the  end 
of  it.  It  seemed  to  be  a  pity.  I  used  to  think 
perhaps  he'd  come  and  see  her  some  time,  be 
tween  voyages,  and  that  he'd  get  to  be  cap'n, 
and  the}T'd  go  off  and  take  me  with  'em.  I 
alwaj's  wanted  to  see  something  of  the  world. 
I  never  have  been  but  dreadful  little  wa}'s  from 
home.  I  used  to  wish  I  could  keep  school ;  and 
once  my  uncle  was  agent  for  his  district,  and  he 
said  I  could  have  a  chance  ;  but  the  folks  laughed 
to  think  o'  me  keeping  school,  and  I  never  said 
any  thing  more  about  it.  But  you  see  it  might  'a' 
led  to  something.  I  always  wished  I  could  go  to 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  263 

Boston.  I  suppose  3'ou've  been  there?  There! 
I  couldn't  live  out  o'  sight  o'  the  woods,  I  don't 
believe." 

"  I  can  understand  that,"  said  I,  and  half  with 
a  wish  to  show  her  I  had  some  troubles,  though  I 
had  so  man}*  pleasures  that  she  did  not,  I  told 
her  that  the  woods  I  loved  best  had  all  been  cut 
clown  the  winter  before.  I  had  played  under  the 
great  pines  when  I  was  a  child,  and  I  had  spent 
many  a  long  afternoon  under  them  since.  There 
never  will  be  such  trees  for  me  any  more  in  the 
world.  I  knew  where  the  flowers  grew  under 
them,  and  where  the  ferns  were  greenest,  and  it 
was  as  much  home  to  me  as  my  own  house. 
They  grew  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  and  the  sun 
always  shone  through  the  tops  of  the  trees  as  it 
went  down,  while  below  it  was  all  in  shadow  — 
and  I  had  been  there  with  so  many  dear  friends 
who  have  died,  or  who  are  very  far  away.  I  told 
Miss  Cynthia,  wrhat  I  never  had  told  an}*body 
else,  that  I  loved  those  trees  so  much  that  I  went 
over  the  hill  on  the  frozen  snow  to  see  them  one 
sunny  winter  afternoon,  to  say  good-by,  as  if  I 
were  sure  they  could  hear  me,  and  looked  back 
again  and  again,  as  I  came  away,  to  be  sure 
I  should  remember  how  they  looked.  And  it 


264  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

seemed  as  if  they  knew  as  well  as  I  that  it  was 
the  last  time,  and  they  were  going  to  be  cut  down. 
It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  I  was  all  alone, 
and  the  farewell  was  a  reality  and  a  sad  thing  to 
me.  It  was  saying  good-by  to  a  great  deal  be 
sides  the  pines  themselves. 

We  stopped  a  while  in  the  little  garden,  where 
Miss  Cynthia  gave  me  some  magnificent  big  mari 
golds  to  put  away  for  seed,  and  was  much  pleased 
because  I  was  so  delighted  with  her  flowers.  It 
was  a  gorgeous  little  garden  to  look  at,  with  its 
red  poppies,  and  blue  larkspur,  and  3'ellow  mari 
golds,  and  old-fashioned  sweet,  straying  things, 
—  all  growing  together  in  a  tangle  of  which  my 
friend  seemed  ashamed.  She  told  me  that  it 
looked  as  ordered  as  could  be,  until  the  things 
begun  to  grow  so  fast  she  couldn't  do  an}T  thing 
with  'em.  She  was  veiy  proud  of  one  little  pink- 
and-white  verbena  which  somebody  had  given 
her.  It  was  not  growing  very  well ;  but  it  had 
not  disappointed  her  about  blooming. 

Georgie  had  come  back  from  his  ramble  some 
time  before.  He  had  cracked  the  lobster  which 
Miss  Hannah  had  promptly  put  on  to  boil,  and  I 
saw  the  old  gray  cat  having  a  capital  lunch  off  the 
shells  ;  while  the  horse  looked  meeker  than  ever, 


A  BIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  265 

with  his  headstall  thrown  back  on  his  shoulders, 
eating  his  supper  of  ha}^  by  the  fence ;  for  Miss 
Hannah  was  a  hospitable  soul.  She  was  tramp 
ing  about  in  the  house,  getting  supper,  and  we 
went  in  to  find  the  table  already  pulled  out  into 
the  floor.  So  Miss  C}'nthia  hastened  to  set  it. 
I  could  see  she  was  very  much  ashamed  of  having 
been  gone  so  long.  Neither  of  us  knew  it  was 
so  late.  But  Miss  Hannah  said  it  didn't  make  a 
mite  o'  difference,  there  was  next  to  nothing  to 
do,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  little  smile,  which 
said,  u  You  see  how  it  is.  I'm  the  one  who  has 
faculty,  and  I  favor  her." 

I  was  \er\  hungiy  ;  and,  though  it  was  not  }*et 
six,  it  seemed  a  whole  day  since  dinner-time. 
Miss  Hannah  made  many  apologies  ;  and  said,  if 
I  had  only  set  a  day,  she  would  have  had  things 
as  the}'  ought  to  be.  But  it  was  a  very  good 
supper,  and  she  knew  it !  She  didn't  know  but 
I  was  tired  o'  lobsters.  And  when  I  had  eaten 
two  of  the  biscuit,  and  had  begun  an  attack  on 
the  hot  gingerbread,  she  said  humbly  that  she 
didn't  know  when  she  had  had  such  bad  luck, 
though  Georgie  and  I  were  both  satisfied.  He 
did  not  speak  more  than  once  or  twice  during  the 
meal.  I  do  not  think  he  was  afraid  of  me,  for 


266  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

we  had  had  many  a  lunch  together  when  he  had 
taken  me  out  fishing ;  but  this  was  an  occasion, 
and  there  was  at  first  the  least  possible  restraint 
over  all  the  company,  though  I'm  glad  to  say  it 
soon  vanished.  We  had  two  kinds  of  preserves, 
and  some  honey  beside,  and  there  was  a  pie  with 
a  pale,  smooth  crust,  and  three  cuts  in  the  top. 
It  looked  like  a  veiy  good  pie  of  its  kind  ;  but 
one  can't  eat  every  thing,  though  one  does  one's 
best.  And  we  had  big  cups  of  tea;  and,  though 
Miss  Hannah  supposed  I  had  never  eaten  with 
any  thing  but  silver  forks  before,  it  happened 
luckily  that  I  had,  and  we  were  very  merry  in 
deed.  Miss  Hannah  told  us  several  stories  of 
the  time  she  kept  school,  and  gave  us  some  remi 
niscences  of  her  life  at  the  Port ;  and  Miss 
Cynthia  looked  at  me  as  if  she  had  heard  them 
before,  and  wished  to  sa}~,  "  I  know  she's  having 
a  good  time."  I  think  Miss  Cynthia  felt,  after 
we  were  out  in  the  woods,  as  if  I  were  her  com 
pany,  and  she  was  responsible  for  me. 

I  thanked  them  heartily  when  I  came  awa}T, 
for  I  had  had  such  a  pleasant  time.  Miss  Cynthia 
picked  me  a  huge  nosegay  of  her  flowers,  and 
whispered  that  she  hoped  I  wouldn't  forget  about 
lending  her  the  book.  Poor  woman  !  she  was  so 


A  HIT  OF  SHORE  LIFE.  267 

young, — only  a  girl  yet,  in  spite  of  her  having 
lived  more  than  fifty  years  in  that  plain,  dull 
home  of  hers,  in  spite  of  her  faded  face  and 
her  grayish  hair.  We  came  awa}r  in  the  rattling 
wagon.  Georgie  sat  up  in  his  place  with  a  steady 
hand  on  the  reins,  and  keeping  a  careful  lookout 
ahead,  as  if  he  were  steering  a  boat  through  a 
rough  sea. 

We  passed  the  house  where  the  auction  had 
been,  and  it  was  all  shut  up.  The  cat  sat  on  the 
doorstep  waiting  patiently,  and  I  felt  very  sorry 
for  her ;  but  Georgie  said  there  were  neighbors 
not  far  off,  and  she  was  a  master  hand  for  squir 
rels.  I  was  glad  to  get  sight  of  the  sea  again, 
and  to  smell  the  first  stray  whiff  of  salt  air  that 
blew  in  to  meet  us  as  we  crossed  the  marshes.  I 
think  the  life  in  me  must  be  next  of  kin  to  the 
life  of  the  sea,  for  it  is  drawn  toward  it  strangely, 
as  a  little  drop  of  quicksilver  grows  uneasy  just 
out  of  reach  of  a  greater  one. 

li  Good-night,  Georgie!"  said  I;  and  he 
nodded  his  head  a  little  as  he  drove  awa}~  to  take 
the  horse  home.  "  Much  obliged  to  you  for  my 
ride,"  said  he,  and  I  knew  in  a  minute  that  his 
father  or  one  of  the  aunts  had  cautioned  him  not 
to  forget  to  make  his  acknowledgments,  lie  had 


268  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW. 

told  me  on  the  way  down  that  he  had  baited  his 
nets  all  ready  to  set  that  evening.  I  knew  he 
was  in  a  huny  to  go  out,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  I  saw  his  boat  pushing  off.  It  was  after 
eight  o'clock,  and  the  moon  was  coming  up  pale 
and  white  out  of  the  sea,  while  the  west  was  still 
bright  after  the  clear  sunset. 

I  have  a  little  model  of  a  fishing  dory  that 
Georgie  made  for  me,  with  its  sprit-sail  and 
killick  and  painter  and  oars  and  gaff  all  cleverly 
cut  with  the  clumsiest  of  jackknives.  I  care  a 
great  deal  for  the  little  boat ;  and  1  gave  him  a 
better  knife  before  I  came  away,  to  remember  me 
by  ;  but  I  am  afraid  its  shininess  and  trig  shape 
may  have  seemed  a  trifle  unmanly  to  him.  His 
father's  had  been  sharpened  on  the  beach-stones 
to  clean  many  a  fish,  and  it  was  notched  and 
dingy  ;  but  this  would  cut ;  there  was  no  doubt 
about  that.  I  hope  Georgie  was  sony  when  we 
said  good-by.  I'm  sure  I  was. 

A  solemn,  careful,  contented  young  life,  with 
none  of  the  pla}*fulness  or  childishness  that  be 
long  to  it, — this  is  nry  little  fisherman,  whose 
memory  already  fades  of  whatever  tenderness 
his  dead  mother  may  have  given  him.  But  he  is 
lucky  in  this,  that  he  has  found  his  work  and 


A  BIT  OF 


;  LIFE. 


269 


likes  it ;  and  so  I  sa}T,  '  May  the  sea  prove  kind  to 
him  !  and  ma}'  he  find  the  Friend  those  other  fish 
ermen  found,  who  were  mending  their  nets  on  the 
shores  of  Galilee !  and  may  he  make  the  harbor 
of  heaven  by  and  by  after  a  stormy  voyage  or 
a  quiet  one,  whichever  pleases  God  ! 


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GENERAL  LIBRARY  ~U.C.  BERKELEY 


